


Habanera

by Omnicurls



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnicurls/pseuds/Omnicurls
Summary: Erik fled to distance himself from the law and the madman that had burned down the Opera house. Meg fled to seize control of her life and pursue her dreams away from the shadow of being the ballet mistress's daughter. Reinvention was difficult, but at least they were not alone.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Meg Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry, Meg - Relationship
Comments: 29
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

He had not known himself well enough to understand why Antoinette Giry was so upset. The kind girl who had saved him from hell and brought him to his beloved Opera house, now stood before him as a woman shaking with rage. She clutched so tightly at the stuffed rabbit that her fingers disappeared into its soft white fur. The rabbit wore a little pink skirt, which he had not put on it.

“Erik, I have been a good friend to you, have I not?” She said.

“Of course, you have.”

She looked him in the eyes. They were now of equal height, and both knew he would soon out pace her. “In these years, I have never once asked anything of you.”

He stood quiet. The line of conversation was making him uncomfortable. “I have something to ask of you, and I pray that as you value our friendship, as you value me, you will do this one thing for me.”

“Anything.” He was still too young to understand the power of promising before you heard a request. And he trusted Antoinette with his life.

Her eyes narrowed, and he did not recognize the woman before him. “Stay away from Marguerite.” She thrust the rabbit into his chest.

“It was just a gift. A child needs toys. I would know. She was sick and you were busy teaching. I did -”

“Leave my daughter alone.” Antoinette said firmly. He thought of Antoinette as a sister. A quiet, distant sister, but one who cared for him, nonetheless. He had watched Marguerite grow up from a messy baby into a clumsy toddler with more than a little warmth in his chest. But in this moment, he saw the true distance that lay between him and the Giry family.

Erik closed his hand around the hand-sewn rabbit. “Promise me.” She said. That relenting stare of hers refused to let him be. He felt cold, and oddly tired.

“As you wish, Antoinette.” She nodded sharply, still angry, and left him alone in the darkness.

For two years he kept his word. The clumsy toddler grew into a child of pure mischief whose mother’s reprimands could only stay her curiosity for a few hours at a time. She climbed everything, looked in every dark corner, and more than once she had been close enough for him to whisper to. But he kept his word.

Until she debuted in the chorus.

He had seen her practicing with others but seeing her on the stage among the other children ballerinas, she stood out for the music in her feet. While the others danced to the music, she felt it. He, as a connoisseur of the arts, was more than impressed by her talent. He felt an odd sense of pride that she seemed to love the music almost as much as he did.

It was a note of congratulations and a box of bonbons. All children love sweets. He hadn’t signed the note, he hadn’t spoken to her, he had done nothing. Yet, Antoinette stood before him, shaking with a quiet fury. “You promised.” She accused him.

“I have left your daughter alone.”

“Then what is this?” She held out the note and the sweets.

Erik sighed, frustrated. “She did well today.”

“That is not your business.” She shouted at him. She had never shouted at him before. “You made a promise, but if you cannot keep it then I will have to take my daughter away. If you speak to her, we will leave. If you leave her a gift or a note, we will leave. If you do anything to reach her, or make her aware of your presence, we will leave. If you hurt her in any way -”

“You believe I would hurt your daughter?” Erik said. When he asked that question, he himself had not known that that would be the last time, for a long time, that anyone would hear the natural softness in his voice.

She did not reply, she merely forced the notes and box of sweets back into his hands. He did not need her anymore; he could run his affairs on his own. But there was still a child in him that feared being truly alone. He turned from her and walked away, and from that moment he could never truly refer to her as a friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine Daae made keeping his promise easier. Antoinette had Marguerite so it was only fair, only right, that he had Christine. He watched from the shadows as the chorus girls hurried backstage. “Did you see him?” Christine asked Meg. There was a darkness in the blonde ballerina’s face that lent her light features a dangerous depth. 

“Who? I wasn’t looking for anyone.” Meg pulled the ribbons out of her hair and threw them into a pile of ribbons that grew as each chorus girl let down her hair.

“But you said he told you -” Christine pressed on, sweet and innocent as the day she had arrived in the Opera house.

“I said nothing.” Meg said, anger quivering in her voice. She saw the hurt in her friend’s face and quickly took the taller girl’s hand in hers, “I’m sorry. He promised he’d come to see me perform, and I worked so hard so I could be perfect today and, he didn’t come.” Erik felt strangely lost. He knew all the secrets of the opera house, he was privy to all the gossip between the walls, and the scheming and lies. But when it came to Marguerite Giry, he was lost. He had kept his distance and forced himself to remain as ignorant as he could of all things related to her, so he had no idea whom she spoke about. He had given his word, and it was as good as an oath.

Christine squeezed Meg’s hand gently, she was about to offer some words of comfort when an older, taller girl pushed Christine out of the way so she could throw her ribbon in a pile with the others. “Did you sing loud enough today, Christine? Are you sure the audience knew you were the only chorus girl?” The girl said, and Christine shrank away.

“If she didn’t sing loud enough everyone would hear that you can’t sing.” Meg said sharply. She placed herself between Christine and the older girl, not minding that she was the shortest of the three. “I know you were the one who ripped her costume. I dare you to try it again, Lucila.”

“You dare me? What are you going to do? Tell your mother?” The girl laughed, but it was the strained laugh of the worried and uncomfortable.

“You’re new so you don’t understand, but this _my_ Opera House, _my_ chorus.”

The older girl laughed in her face, and Erik almost did the same. Her Opera house? What a bold child. He caught himself and turned his attention to Christine. What a perfect student. She stood behind her friend, hands clasped together in the picture of innocence. She placed a soft hand on her friend’s shoulder, “Let’s go Meg.”

Meg turned around in a huff and the two girls walked off together. “This is our home. I’m not going to allow anyone to make us unhappy here.” She said.

Erik saw the older girl, Lucila, bully her way through the weeks as she tried to peck out a hierarchy among the chorus girls. And he saw the pranks that they pulled on her in return, at first harmless inconveniences that grew bitter and hurtful until one day, she walked up to Marguerite Giry as the younger girl was sewing the straps onto her new ballet slippers. “Make them stop.” She asked. She was an aspiring queen bowed and beaten. Erik wanted to know what role the little Giry had played in the girl’s torment. He wanted to know what the clumsy toddler had grown into. But he forced himself to walk away; he could have nothing to do with Marguerite Giry. He walked through the shadows to Christine’s room and he called to her, his wonderful instrument gifted from the heavens. 


	3. Chapter 3

When the vicomte arrive at the opera house, Erik finally understood what Antoinette had known about him when she had demanded he leave her daughter alone. His gestures had been innocent and well intentioned, towards Marguerite and, later, towards Christine. But in the time spent watching over Christine, he had grown to feel she belonged to him. He was not sure when he began to see her as his and his alone, but when the vicomte tried to lay a claim on her, and when she chose the vicomte over him, he burned down the Opera house in rage.

He curled into the corner, his head buried between his knees as he wept. He had been insolent and foolish to dare dream that he could have something beautiful. He, a wretched demon of the dark, had touched something beautiful and he had rightly been burned for it.

Erik felt a warmth on his arms and on the top of his bowed head. He thought it was the onset of a fever, until he heard a voice. “Monsieur.” He knew that, in time, a mob of justice hungry Frenchmen would storm his sanctuary in search of him. But he also knew that no member of a mob would address their target so gently. They would scream to the crowd that they had found the monster, the beast. They would scream for the other to come and string him up, which he probably deserved. They would never ask, “Monsieur, are you hurt?”

He looked up, confused, and he saw her. Her brown eyes looked almost golden in the light, and they promise a warmth and passion that rivalled that of the flame that illuminated them. The whiteness of her shirt, wet no doubt from wading in his lake, had turned translucent and clung to her without a care for modesty or self-respect. Yet there was still that innocence that shrouded her and made what would otherwise have been obscene near pious. Even in this state, crushed and reeling from heartbreak, he was enough of a man to know what she looked like. She was desire that dragged man into his basest form, born to lead men astray.

Erik pushed the shameful thoughts from his mind, but the guilt of having those thoughts to begin with, lingered. She reached out, as if to touch him, and he shrank from her. She pulled back. She lowered herself to his level, so she could speak to him in a whisper, and Erik felt the heat of the flame on his face. It was then he remembered that his was naked, in front of her. He clasped his hand over his face and turned away. “Go away, Marguerite.”

“You know me?” She said, shocked at his use of her name.

“I said go away.” He hissed.

“Monseiur,” She inched closer to him. No one but Christine had ever been this close to him, and he wondered what sort of madness had possessed her that she would dare. “They are forming a mob,” she whispered, “they are coming down here, for you. You must escape.”

With his free hand, he pushed her backwards to reclaim his personal space, but he pushed her harder than he intended to, and she stumbled backwards and fell. The immediate guilt he felt was shocking, and he had to fight himself to quell its protests. He expected her to look hurt, so he cast his away from her. Meg stood up, fully, so she was looking down at him again and when she spoke, he knew the air between them had shifted.

“The mob is coming to burn your home, I thought it would be a pity for them to burn you too.”

Erik laughed bitterly into his hand. “Antoinette sent you? I don’t need her charity. What is it to you if I burn? I burnt your home.”

“No, my mother did not send me. I came myself, to help you escape.”

“Are you foolish? You came alone? Just you and your death wish? I could kill you where you stand.” She was not scared of him and that sat strangely with him. Erik rose to his full height, his broad shoulders seemed to fill the narrow tunnel and shrink it around her. But Meg held fast, and though her quivering brown eyes belied her self-doubt, she forced the rest of her body to remain steady and strong.

“You’ve not killed me yet.” She said.

He was ready to say something in response, but out of nowhere his thoughts turned to Christine and he felt her fingers on his face, ripping his mask away in front of everyone. He had made himself vulnerable to her, and he had been burned for his stupidity. He leaned against the wall and turned away so Meg would not see him crying. He could not control the tears or his shaking. He felt sick enough to retch. “Go away, Giry.”

“I’m sorry monsieur, but I cannot.”

“Why would I trust you? Another viper sent to bring me down. Go back to your mother.” He spoke into the wall, fully aware that he was at his lowest and there was no further ‘down’ for her to bring him.

“I cannot.” She said. There was a resolve in her voice made him pause. “Monsieur, you have no reason to trust me, but I swear on all that I own that I will do my best to lead you out of Paris, and when you are out, I will bother you no more.”

“And you think you will be safe with a man you barely know?” He laughed bitterly at her naivety.

“I know you. You’re always up in the rafters; no one ever thinks to look up. I’ve known you for many years. And I know you have saved me from more than one ill-intentioned dancer and stagehand.” She reached for him but thought better of it and withdrew her hand. “Let me help you escape.”

He needed her help. He intended to flee with Christine, he had packed what was valuable, made arrangements for a future far away from France, and an accomplice to help his complete his disguise. “Why would you throw away your life to help the person who just burnt down your home?”

She said nothing in response. It was her secret, and he would not grudge her for it; it was better that she could keep a secret. He wanted to say no, to drive her out of the tunnel and back to her mother. But he needed the help. What could it hurt to be a little selfish? It was only a trip to the train station, to doors of the train, and from there he could send her back to her mother as though she had never encountered him. He had planned his escape from France carefully, but it required two and Christine had deserted him. He needed her, and so he conceded. “There is a train, but I may require assistance in getting to the train.”

“I promise, monsieur, you can trust me.” She placed a hand on her chest in a sincere oath, but all he saw was the rise and fall of her generous chest. He turned his back to her, indicating that their conversation was over, but if she understood his body language, she chose to ignore it. “May I ask your name?”

He frowned. People only asked his name when it came to business. Lawyers needed it, bankers needed it. The little Giry had no use for his name, and it felt an oddly personal thing to give without reason. “No.”

“So what am I to call you? The opera ghost? The phantom?”

“Monsieur is adequate.” He said with enough coolness to silence even her.


	4. Chapter 4

Strangely, he dreamt of Marguerite Giry. He saw, through a narrow slit of vision, long blonde hair falling over his chest. He saw the light tan of her wrist as cool hands brushed his brow and cheeks. Her hands were unbearably soft against his skin. In this unexpected dream she even dared to touch the ruined said of his face. Her cold hands were sweet relief against the typically warm skin. He even dreamt her head on his chest, rising and falling with each of his own breaths. Imagine his surprise when he woke to find her in his cabin the next morning.

Erik stared in dumb silence at Meg. “You’re awake. Truly awake.” She said brightly. The steady beat of the marching train roared outside. A cold breeze blew across him from the half open window, and he lifted his hand to his chest to find that he wore no shirt.

“How are you here?” He tried to stand up to face her, but his legs betrayed him and he only managed to stumble out of the narrow cabin bed. She was by his side immediately, and he arms, deceptively strong from years of discipline and dance, caught him under the arm and around the waist. She helped him back onto his bed.

“The servant assigned to your cabin came to fetch me. Someone must have seen us together at the station, and when they failed to get a response from you, they came to find me. You’ve been very ill, monsieur.” She said easily, as though her were not failing to address a glaring hole in her story.

“How did you get on the train? I left you at the station.”

“I bought my own ticket. A less comfortable ticket, of course. I am several carriages down from you.” She removed the pillow from the head of the bed and motioned for him to lean forward. He stared at her; he was so confused. “Do you want the pillows or not? I can’t imagine that panel you’re leaning on is very comfortable.”

“You were supposed to return to your mother.” He said, trying to sound stern but too off balance by the entire situation to truly find the resolve and intimidation he needed in his voice.

Meg shrugged as if it did not matter. She acted like a person to whom consequences were a mere suggestion. She wanted to follow him into the tunnels, so she did. She wanted to get on a train to Italy, so she did. “It’s good I decided to travel too; who would have been here to tend to you?”

He was about to let her know, rather sternly, that he would have been fine on her own. He had been ill before, suffered through night sweats on his own, woken up in a haze of delirium, and still tended to himself. On his own. He did not need her, or anyone else’s, charity. But before he could speak, she did something to utterly bewilder him. She placed her hand, soft delicate and fine, against his forehead. She touched him without flinching, and he realized that when he had stumbled, she had caught him without a second thought. He wanted to grab her hand and hold it to his head, extended feeling the warmth of another, given freely, but his pride would never let him sink so low.

She pulled away and smiled, “No more fever. Maybe you can finally eat something proper.”

“I’m not that ill.” He was not putting on a show of machismo. He felt like death, but he had not even had fever dreams. This was a light illness, nothing of substance.

She tilted her head and gave him a smile that was equal parts amusement, and equal part condescension. “We’re two hours away from Milan.”

“I’ve been…”

“I was barely settled in my seat when the servant told me you’d fainted in your cabin. He heard crash, saw you on the ground.” She lifted her hands and clasped them together over her head as she pulled herself up into a stretch, she bent backwards and even through the dowdy black dress she wore, a remnant of the costume she had worn to help his pass as an injured man in need of a nurse, he saw the graceful arc she cut. She was a dancer every step of the way. “I am so tired. You stole my sleep.”

He thoughts went to Christine, and he wondered if she would have cared for him. If she would have, knowing what he had done, still found it in herself to help him. He wanted the answer to be a definitive yes, but he was unsure. He went from confused but willing to listen, to dour. “I did not ask you to do any of this. You should not even be here. I will not be responsible for you, Giry.” He aimed to sound hard but his still weak from his illness and thoughts of Christine turned all strength into weakness. He turned from her and pressed his side against the train panel. It felt cool against his face and the glacial horror of his exposed skin washed over him. He touched his face, and surely, he felt, under his bare fingers, wrapped skin. Normally that skin was hot with a soft spreading burn that reminded him, constantly, of his hideous features. She had removed the bandages, he had used to conceal his face.

She must have seen him trying to cover his face, or maybe sensed the shift in his demeanor from sour to vulnerable. “I had to take off the bandages. You had a fever and they were not helping.” She spoke softly and carefully, as though she were trying to coax him out into the open.

He felt naked, ashamed. Had she been looking at that this whole time? He needed her to leave him, immediately, but it was too much. Her presence, the weakness that swam in his head went all the way down to his bones. He was thinking that he might just grabbed her and throw her out without a word. That was a solution, and surely if he concentrated enough he could gather the strength to stand, to grab her by the arm –

“Monsieur.” She cleared her throat. He did not look at her. She tapped him with something hard yet pliable. “I found this. I meant to give it to you earlier but we were in such a rush.” Turning the good side of his face towards her, slightly, he looked down and saw the gleaming white of his mask. This entire ordeal was a dream. It had to be. None of this, Marguerite Giry taking caring of him on a train to Italy, she handing him his mask when she should not have had it at all, she speaking to him as though his hideousness was not bare for all to see. It had all the markings of a dream, and he refused to believe it was anything but. He was probably still under the Opera house, fainted and wasting away. That seemed more inline with the hands fate love to deal him.

Erik snatched the mask away from her, “How do you have this?” He snarled. He raised it, ready to put on his second half and become himself again. Meg quickly put her hand on his arm, staying it.

“Don’t wear it, not now. Your skin was so red, inflamed from the constant friction of the mask and then bandages. I’m not a true nurse, but I know what keeping your skin bound up can do. Your face needs to breathe.” 

He was surprised at the anger that simmered in his chest. He lowered his hand from his face through gritted teeth said, “You want me to walk around looking like this? Like a monster?”

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable. But you’re inside, there’s no reason to hide away.”

“I’m not hiding.” He snapped, “and your presence makes me uncomfortable.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Phantom of the Opera stepped off the train. He kept the hood of his cloak up and made sure to stay within the shadows. But even in the coolness of the shadows, the station felt hot and the noise of so many people seemed to crowd his senses and made it impossible for him to think. The fever had abated, but it had not left him.

Erik saw her standing a few steps away from the train door. She had one bag, modestly sized, clasped to her chest, and she stared in innocent wonder at the vaulted ceilings of the station. The setting sun’s fiery glow poured into the station through large arched windows and radiated off her hair and skin, creating a halo of red and golds, and in the centre was this soft cherubic thing too pure for this world.

He swayed on his feet, a sure sign that he had to get to his lodgings as quickly as possible lest his faint in public. He turned and paused, where would she stay? Did she have money? He felt the ache of his tired sense of duty, rise in his chest. He could not leave her to wander Milan alone, unguarded. No. The least he could do was ensure that she was back on a train to Paris, and to her mother. He’d force her to buy a ticket and put her on the train back himself, and Antoinette would know that he kept his promise to leave her daughter alone.

He walked towards her, silent as a shadow. She did not notice him approach her, and her obliviousness to her surrounded only strengthened his belief that she needed to return to her home. “Giry.” He said, and she jumped. She took a moment to peer under the hood and seeing the flash of bone-white mask she relaxed.

“You shouldn’t do that. It’s scary.” She lowered her bag from her chest and allowed it to rest at her knees. She tilted her head and peered under the hood again and then, without his permission, slipped her hand under the hood and pressed her hand to his cheek. “You look like death, and you’re still sweating.”

She was soft against him, and he felt the urge to lean into the comfort. He stepped away quickly. “I do not recall giving you permission to touch me.”

She frowned at him, “Are you always this difficult? You’re sick, everyone who is sick needs to be taken care of. Stop being a child.”

“You compare me to a child?”

“You’re being one. Sick people need to be cared for. How do you think I’d feel if I found out you died because no one was watching out for you?”

“First, this is hardly an illness of death. Second, I have never, in my life, needed anyone to watch for me. Third, I am not your concern, returning to France is.” She said. He took her by the forearm, and she snatched it away in indignation. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m responsible for you.” He was tired. Now his head was spinning, and it was taking him precious seconds to process her words, but she would not stop talking, and not stop being difficult. He was supposed to be in Milan with Christine, and she would never have done this: question his authority. She listened, was obedient and manageable. This woman in front of him was not pure after all; she was a headache with legs.

“So, you’re responsible for me, but I can’t worry about you? That doesn’t make sense.” She said.

“I’m responsible to you as a favour to your mother; she will be worried about you.” He hissed. The pain in his head was making him slow and angry.

Meg laughed and shook her head. It was not a laugh he would have expected from her; this laugh was pleasant to hear, but also hollow and altogether disquieting. “She will not even know I am gone, not for a week, at least.”

“How would she not know her precious little daughter is gone?”

She elegantly side-stepped the question. “I am not going back now, monsieur. And you can’t make me.” She placed her hand against her chest in a dramatic fashion that was both surprising and endearing. “I need to find lodgings before the sun sets, so I must go. However, I will sleep much better if you told me where you would be staying so I could check in on you.”

He shut his eyes and breathed. There was too much in the station. He needed to leave, to drink water and lay down. He did not have the energy or stamina to keep fighting with this woman who did not know how to concede, and he could not very well carry her onto a Paris bound train. Not without loud resistance from her, and that would draw more attention to himself that he cared to draw. “You don’t have time to find lodgings now; it’s already getting dark. Do you speak Italian?”

“A bit, from the opera. I’m a big girl, monsieur. I can care for myself.”

“Have you cared for yourself before?”

Finally, he had said something to give her paused, and she fell silent. Erik revelled in not having to follow her words and think of a retort. His mind could relax, and his head could breathe.

“I must learn someday. Why not now?” She said, after thinking carefully.

“Not like this. You will get lost or be harmed.” He gave in to the only obvious course of action. A healthier Erik may have had it in him to steel his heart against her, but he was tired and he kept thinking of Antoinette and how she had dragged him from danger to safety. He couldn’t leave her daughter to the wolves. “Come with me, I will find you a place to stay.”

She looked to her left, and to her right, as though contemplating some unknown options. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

It was too late for that. “This endless talking is inconveniencing me. If you want to be helpful, do as I say.”


	6. Chapter 6

He had teetered on the edge of seriously ill for well over a week. If he exerted himself too much, his body rebelled. He had no desire to go out during the day, but even the long nightly walks he would have liked proved too much for him. If he ate too quickly, he threw up. If he moved too quickly, his head swam. And through all this, he refused to see a doctor. They fought over it for two days straight, until a miracle occurred, and she tired first (most likely because he could fight her from the comfort of his bed, and in the general silence of his room). They settled on a compromise: no doctor, but he would let her check in on him at least three times a day. And thus, they had an arrangement.

“I still can’t have your name?” She asked as removed her had from his head, and then placed her hands gently underneath his jaw, she tilted his head upwards so he stared directly into her eyes. He remained silent, refusing to address yet another request for his name. She had no use for it, and he still felt strange just handing it over. She stared back into his eyes, inspecting his gaze. “You look well. Finally.” She smiled. She tapped her index finger against his hard mask. “You need to let your face breathe.”

Erik felt his heartbeat quicken. In his mind, he could see her removing that mask without his consent. He felt a rush of shame and he pulled away from her. Who was she to tell him what to do with his deformity? There was a quick knock at the door, and Meg looked over her shoulder at the door, “Must be time for lunch.” She said. She turned away from him and walked towards the door and Erik disappeared from the small living room in his suite, into the bedroom, in case any curious passerby were to peek into his room. It was not a fear, but rather a loathing of being seen when he did not want to be seen. Meg stepped into the corridor and soon returned wheeling a small metal food cart. 

“Your rented home.” She said. Erik slid from the bedroom into the living room and watched as she spread a white dining cloth over the small table that sat in one corner of room. “I found one I believe strongly enough you would like that I scheduled a vising for tonight.” She put down plates, a wine glass, cutlery. “I told them you had a ‘light sensitivity condition’ and they did not seem to mind a night time tour.”

She turned around to face him and made a great pantomime of a curtsey, “Lunch is served, monsieur.” She rose from her curtsey and added, “8pm tonight, we set out. I will book a carriage and I am certain, this time, you will like the place.” She made to leave, to give him his privacy while ate.

“Giry.” At him calling her, she stopped and turned around,

“Monsieur?”

Erik pulled his hands from behind himself and presented her with a white envelope.

“What’s this? A letter?” She took the envelope from him and noticed there was nothing written on it. Curious, she opened it and looked inside. “Money? What for?”

Erik sat at the table and reached for the bottle of red wine. “You’ve been of great help, and I must compensate you for your services.”

Meg marched back to the table and placed the envelope next to his glass. “No. I could never take you money.”

“I would not accept that you work for me for free.” He pushed the envelope towards her. “You’ve been nurse, maid, errand girl. It is only right.”

“I agree. But you’ve paid my room in this hotel, you paid for my meals. That’s enough.”

“Those are favours. For the child for an old acquaintance.”

Meg shook her head vehemently. Erik took a sip of his wine and watched her from over the rim of the crystal glass. “I don’t want favours. I am earning my keep.” She had this tone she uses from time to time that meant she had already made up her mind and no argument, not even if made by God himself, would change her mind. She was a mule, when she desired to be, self-satisfied in her immovability. “I will you see tonight, monsieur.”

Meg Giry left and Erik leaned back in his chair. He could not have Christine, and absent of Christine he would have preferred to be alone. But, as with all things, he could not have that either. Instead, he had been forced to tolerate the little Giry. And in the times between her checking in on him, he was forced to constantly re-accommodate himself to his solitude, which now seemed quietly oppressive. He drank from his glass and found himself wondering if she drank wine. He wondered where she ate, and what she did in the time between running his errands and watching him as if he were going to die from his brief illness.


	7. Chapter 7

Meg would not cry, because there was nothing to cry about. She willed her eyes to remain dry and stared at the candles. She had lit four candles and prayed for four souls. She prayed for her mother, and hoped she would not worry too much when she returned to their apartment in Paris and found the note Meg had left. She prayed for Christine, who deserved the true love and marital bliss she had wanted with Raoul. She prayed for Erik, for all of him. And she prayed for herself, that she would not be judged as too terrible a daughter and friend. She had seen a chance at freedom, a chance to step out of the shadows and pursue the life she wanted, and she had taken it without a thought for what her mother or best friend would feel when they found her missing. She had had no other choice; Paris was killing her. She checked her eyes for tears and finding none, she stood up to leave.

She had not been looking forward and almost ran into the Priest who had come to stand a few steps behind her while she prayed. “Sorry Father.” She bowed her head slightly in apology. He replied in swift Italian and she blinked at him.

“No, I speak no Italian.” She managed to grind a out the words in a heavily accented Italian, and she raised both hands in apology.

“Ah, forgive me, mademoiselle.” He said in a faultless Parisian French. “I was going to ask if you were new to the area? I have not seen you at service. But now, I understand.”

“I came not too long ago. Someone once told me Milan was beautiful.”

“And has my humble city lived up to your expectations?” The priest asked. Meg reveled in the ability to speak, in more than broken phrases, with someone new. She had met a few people who spoke enough French for her to converse with in her sparse Italian, but as entertaining as those encounters were, there was something about being able to hold a fluid conversation that made her feel less lost in the city.

“In every way. I am still exploring it in my free time, but I have loved everything I had seen so far.”

“Forgive my poor manners, I am known as Father Parma, but I think that is too formal. I’ve not had my robes a year and so it is strange to hear me addressed as ‘father’. I’d be much happier if you called me Niccolo.”

Meg dipped into a shallow curtsey, “Marguerite Giry, but my friends call me Meg.”

“Well, Meg, I do not know of any services in French, but if you ever need to speak, or need guidance, I would be glad to be of service.”

“Thank you, Father.” She paused, and then corrected herself “Niccolo.” She did not have the heart to tell him that she would not have attended service even if she could find a mass held in French. She was too lazy with her religion to dedicate her time to mass. “How come you speak such good French?”

He smiled widened generously, “I had a French governess when I was a child and later on, I spent a number of my summers in Paris. I can hear that you are from Paris.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Beautiful city, such a place of romance and love.”

Meg laughed, “So you bought into the façade too. It’s all a lie; everyone gets their heart broken in Paris.”

“It seems I was well deceived.” He nodded in agreement, and for the first time since she had arrived in Milan, Meg felt happy.

“It has been a pleasure speaking to you, Niccolo, but I must be going now; I have a few errands to run.” She said.

He looked outside at the darkening sky and frowned. “At this time? Would you need to be accompanied?”

“Is Milan that dangerous?” She laughed, “I’ve been out often enough at night and I haven’t had any trouble so far.”

“No, but it serves you well to be prudent. I never have visitors at this time, I would be more than happy to accompany you.” He offered, still looking so concerned for her safety.

“Thank you for thinking of my safety, but I will be fine. I am not going alone. I will catch a carriage to my lodging and from there run the errands with a friend of my family’s.” She said.

He looked more at ease, and he nodded. “Very well, but may I wait outside with you until you find a carriage?”

Meg nodded, “Thank you.” She has forgotten was it was like to be thought of. She had spent the past few months trying to make sure Christine was alright, which she had failed at. Trying to make sure her mother was alright, even though her mother never trusted her enough to tell her the full truth about Erik and the Opera. Trying to make sure her surly travelling companion was alright, but he never inquired about her or how she survived with her miniscule Italian. It felt good to be seen, and by a priest, no less. She could not feel safer.


	8. Chapter 8

“This is not what I asked for.” He said to Meg. He spoke in French, but the agent understood his tone well enough to know something was wrong. The man, slight and greying, looked worriedly at Meg, who dismissed his concern with a pleasant wave of her hand.

“It’s fine. I’m sure. I will handle.” She said to the agent. She was a wonder with gestures and simple phrases. She made herself understood, and Erik was a little more than impressed at her tenacity.

Erik looked at the small house rising up against the river. It was on a busy, brightly lit street and the short metal fence offered little in the way of privacy. “This meets none of my specifications. It’s the worst one yet.”

“I found places that fit your requests, and you hated every single one. You didn’t really want those; I think I know you, monsieur.” The irony of her telling him she knew him while not even knowing his name was clear to both of them. Meg placed her hand on his arm, “If anything, indulge my hard work and just look inside.”

He wanted to say no. This was everything he did not want. There were too many windows that people could peer through, the neighbouring homes were too close, and the street was too open. He stood straight and threw his shoulders back to make himself feel larger, to help him fill up the space. But there was too much space and he was not enough. “Please. Indulge me.” She squeezed his arm and brought his attention back to her. Her eyes, large, liquid and pleading, teetered between flat disappointment and the shine of excitement. He found that he dreaded the disappointment. It would take nothing to give her a few minutes of happiness, and after all she had done for him it was the least he could do.

“Fine. I will look.” He said. She smiled.

“We are going to look.” She said to the agent. The agent relaxed and nodded. He unlocked the low fence and pushed it open for them. Meg skipped ahead, up the stone pavement and turned to face him. Her cape fluttered across the low, snow covered hedges. She clasped her hands together in excited triumph, “It’s perfect. I know it is.” She was still beaming, and the yellow garden lamps made her look like a fae plucked from an opera and placed in the middle of the city. He followed her, blindly, up the garden steps and onto the veranda. The agent unlocked the doors and entered. Erik followed him, but Meg remained on the veranda, she peered in, smiling and full of mischief.

“May I enter your home, monsieur?” She asked.

“You are very certain I will want this place.”

She nodded vigorously. She was so pleased with herself that her excitement was almost intoxicating. “You may enter.” He said, giving in to her ridiculous charade.

It was a very lovely home, he had to admit. But there were things that still made him recoil from it. “Look how high the ceilings are.” Meg said from his side, she rose onto her toes, as though to stress the fact. “It’s very you, high ceilings.”

“The windows are too large.” He said flatly.

“Yes, but,” her hand was on his arm again, “more space for some heavy, burgundy curtains.” She was correct. The living room would pleasant with heavy curtains. “Floor to ceiling windows; so much space for all the drama you like. And look” she let go of him and spun to the centre of the living room, “look at call this carpet space.”

She painted a wonderful picture of what the house could be. A piano there, built in shelves for his books, sturdy walls for the silence he craved, reading nooks nestled between windows. “Now, I have saved the best for last.” Far at the back corner of the house a black metal staircase wound upwards. She urged him up the stairs. It led to a first floor that only partially used the available space. The generous landing gave way to an open corridor from where you could see down into the ground floor, and through another door they finally reached the master bedroom.

“Come see.” She pulled him towards a trio of windows from which he could see down into the slow-moving river beneath. The city lay bare for him, yellow streetlamps dotted the roads and he could see people walking along the river, going about their lives. The vibrancy of life was beautiful, and he felt underserving of such open access to the world.

“I know how much you enjoy spying on the world.” She teased. “And you get an entire floor to yourself, in case you need to bury yourself even one level deeper.”

He realised he was going to rent this house and it troubled him. He wanted something out of the way, deep, dark, and quiet, where he could reflect on his life and how to repent for the paid, he had caused. But this house spoke to some desire in himself that he felt unworthy of. He could see himself here, and content. “It’s perfect isn’t it? I told you, I _know_ you.” She said without needed confirmation of his thoughts. She had read it in his face.

“There’s a small boarding house for women about three streets away. They have space for me, so I won’t disappear into the city as you feared. You’ll know where I am.” She said.

“A boarding house?” He asked. He had not thought of what would happen to her when he moved out of the hotel. He had quietly assumed that he would still be responsible for her, until… even that, he had not considered an end date. Her mother had not dropped him in a boarding house or an orphanage; he could not very well do that to her.

“Yes. Reputable woman, they take in girls who came to find work and they are affiliated with a convent, so no, it’s not the work you are thinking. It means I will have to go to mass and cannot be out after 9pm, without reason, but beggars can’t be choosers.” She said.

“No.” He said firmly.

“No?”

“I cannot let you stay in a boarding house.” He said simply. It was a gesture of goodwill.

“You do not ‘let’ me do anything. I am not your ward.” In her voice, he heard that he had stumbled into dangerous territory. He was unsure how a simple ‘no’ had landed him in this precarious situation. He acts in her best interest, and she repays him with the threats of a tantrum?

“I’m responsible for you.”

“Who gave you that role?” she challenged.

“I’ve known your mother since before you were born. What shall I tell her if you disappear?” He said.

Meg folded her arms across her chest, “I can handle myself, and I can handle my mother.”

“Fine.” He said smoothly, “Then write to her tonight, tell her where you are.”

Meg looked away, and he accepted his triumph with silent delight. “I know you ran away, Marguerite, and I know you do not wish to return yet. I have not threatened to reveal your location to her, and as long as I know you are safe, I will not.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“For your own good.” He could see traces of the stubborn child that had made it her mission to climb every rafter and crawl into every hole of the Opera house.

“I’m not a child, I don’t need a guardian.”

“I am not your guardian, but it seems I have to be your common sense.” Erik said. Meg said nothing, and he continued, “I still need your services as an aide. I will take this house, and you can have one of the bedrooms below.”

“This is kidnapping.” Meg mumbled; her mood soured by the slow fading of that freedom she had fled Paris for. “I don’t have to be under your watch. I could leave at any time, and I just might.”

“I will find you wherever you go, and I will be forced to truly kidnap you.”


	9. Chapter 9

He was waiting for her to ask him what he had spent his day on. He bent over the stack of papers, making a great show of concentration, and all the received in return was the delicate clinking of glasses and silverware as she set the table. Erik felt the indignation of being ignored. He played a quick tune on his piano and let his eyes slide over the expanse of i’s back and rest on Meg. Her eyes were fixed on her task and did not even in his direction. Today, Meg was quiet and subdued, and it cast a grey cloud over the entirety of the house, dulling the rich colours of his carefully selected décor into a mushy, sickly grey. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of food which she set in front of the single place setting.

“Marguerite, sit.” Erik said, standing up from behind the piano. He made his way to the dining table and sat down. He could see her contemplating whether or not to sit down with him. “I insist.” He said. Curiosity got the better of her, and she sat down. It was not often he displayed much interest in speaking to her; for the most part she felt as though she had to wrestle each conversation out of him.

He poured some wine into the glass in front of him and asked, “Do you drink wine?”

She rested her chin in the crook of her palm and shrugged. “When I could get my hands on some.”

He remembered how young she was. He was so used to her taking charge and questioning him, that he had forgotten her youth. Erik pushed his glass towards her, “It’s a fine wine. Drink with me.” Meg looked down at the glass, again contemplating. She sighed and pulled the glass towards her. Erik fetched himself another glass and returned to the table.

“You choose not to dine with me?” He said, stalling for time as he tried to find a way to ask what was bothering her, without showing explicit interest in her state of mind. He did not want to give her the wrong impression; he was not at all interested in her state of mind, he was more concerned with the gloom that hung about the house.

Meg’s brows creased lightly, “I’m just doing as you wish. Remember the hotel? I believe someone said: ‘I cannot eat in the presence of others’.” She put on a terrible impression of his deeper voice.

He had said that. But that was when he was still not used to her presence. “’Cannot’ may have been a slight exaggeration. You may join me for meals.” He tried to appear unconcerned, but the stiffness in his voice gave him away.

“Is that an invitation? From the phantom himself. What could I have done to deserve such an honour?” She spoke with exaggerated humility, and then raised her wine glass to her lips. She kept her eyes on him, amused by his visible discomfort. She was laughing at him, and he swore to himself that one day he will get his due. She had not truly responded to his offer, and he could not bring himself to ask again.

A mild winter wind whispered outside. He watched as she ran her index finger absently across the base of the wine glass, before taking another sip of wine. “What is the problem?” He finally asked.

Her eyes shot up to meet his and her mouth slid open in silent surprise. He held her gaze confidently; he was determined not the acknowledge the admission that he did care about her state of mind, which came with his question. Meg blinked, she considered telling him that nothing was wrong, but thought better of it. He had offered her a small display of openness, and if she were to close off it would only discourage him. She took another drink from her glass. “I miss dancing.” She said. “I _need_ to dance again, but to get even an audition you need references and referrals, and I have none. I can’t write to my mother for a reference, and I can’t just show up with my ballet slippers and demand to dance. I don’t even have a way to train properly. I will admit, when you play, I try to listen along and dance, but you play like a madman switching from up to down, from a tune I know to something completely unrelated. It’s fine once in a while, keeps me on my toes,” she paused and smiled at her own joke, “but I miss the structure, and the performances, and knowing I am getting better and better.”

He had not expected such a lengthy confession, and he had no idea what to do with the information. “I didn’t come to Milan to be a housekeeper and errand girl. It makes me happy to help you, but this is not what my life is supposed to be.” She finished her wine and looked at the empty glass. He pushed the bottle towards her, and she refilled her glass without a second though.

“What did you come to Milan for?” He found some part of her confession that he could build off, and he quickly grasped at him.

She looked at him through her lashes. Her eyes looked a dangerous gold in the flickering candlelight, and the wine flushed into her cheeks like a courtesan’s rouge. She put the bottle down slowly, and he could not help but stare at her slender arm and fine, long fingers that seemed perfectly crafted for the piano. “And what do I get in return?”

Erik shifted in his seat. “What do you want?”

“I’ll trust you to give me something valuable in return.” She said with a mischievous smirk. She was teasing him again.

Meg folded her arms on the table and looked into the candle flames. It felt oddly like that moment in the church when she had lit the candles and prayed. “I know I’m a good dancer. I may not be the greatest dancer of all time, but I am far better than a chorus. But mama would never let me have any solos. First it was that she didn’t want to play favourite, and when that excuse became worn it was ‘to protect me’. ‘You know how men are,’ she said, ‘you know what’ll happen if you’re out there for everyone to see. They’ll come and pressure you, I’ve seen it happen’.” Her hands curled into involuntary fists, “But what about my future? It didn’t matter what I wanted, she would have tied me up in the basement of the opera if she could, just to keep me ‘safe’.”

“So you decided to run away to Milan?”

Meg shook her head, “A child runs away monsieur, I am not a child.” She lifted her glass to her lips and drank, “I didn’t choose Milan. You did. I feel guilt every day; when I saw the Opera house catch fire, when I heard people screaming ‘out! out!’ I felt as though they were speaking to me. My cage was burning to the ground, and I could get out. And so I did.”

“Why did you come down in search of me? Why not just flee on your own.” It had become his story too, and finally he would know _why_ Marguerite Giry had chosen to be his self-appointed champion.

She pressed her lips together, and it took great effort, and the encouragement of two glasses of wine, for her to confess. “I knew you were in trouble; I overheard my mother speaking to the viscount about your lair and your traps; that’s how I knew how to find you. I knew a mob would follow and that you’d need to flee, I knew my mother was going to spend a week with Christine and the viscount to help them ‘get past the terror’. I also knew if I, a small eighteen-year-old, tried to leave Paris on my own there’d be endless questions and I had never travelled outside of Paris, much less on my own. If I seemed to be travelling with someone there would be fewer questions. I also knew,” she looked at him softly, “that you wouldn’t really hurt me. I always felt as though you watched over us in the opera – probably a silly belief, but that’s what I thought as a child, and it stuck.”

He felt a chill that seeped into his bones. His stomach twisted on itself, and, for a brief moment, he feared he would throw up. Antoinette had told the viscount how to find him? Antoinette had betrayed him? Led the mob to him? He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Of course she would.

He should not have been so shaken by this revelation; people would always betray him. He looked across the table, Meg was still fidgeting with her glass. She would betray him too, the moment it suited her. He knew it. He, in his foolish soft-heartedness, had brought the enemy into his home. “You used me. To escape Paris.” He said. The man she shared a home with had vanished, and in his place sat the cold, intimidating Phantom of the Opera.

Meg leaned away from the table, cautious of the change in him. “You used me too.” She pointed out. “We both needed to escape, and it worked in our favour.”

“Then why are you still here? You are done with me.”

She frowned, “Because you kidnapped me.”

He stood up, Meg could read the anger in his stance. “You are free to leave. You are no longer my concern.”

Meg stood up quickly, “Why? What did I say?”

“You merely spoke the truth.”

“About what?”

“It is none of your concern.”

“I want this in return. I told you why I came to Milan, explain what has made you act like this. We had a deal.” She said, her voice rising in a panic.

She had not been scared of living on her own; she had been more than happy to, so it took him by surprise that she would react so strongly to the freedoms he wanted. “The deal was that I choose what I offer in return. I’ll consider it. If you’re worried about making ends meet, I will more than compensate you for your service thus far.”

“I can care for myself; I don’t want your damn money!” she slammed her hand on the table. The candles flickered between them. She pulled her hand off the table and pressed the back of her hands to her eyes as she breathed deeply. It was the wine; it had stripped away the bold and sunny façade behind which she hid, and, for the first time, he saw the edges of her insecurity.

“What do you want from me?” He said.

“Let us be completely honest with each other.” She said, her voice was firm. “If I wanted to leave, I would have left. I fled Paris with you because it was convenient, I am still here because I enjoy your company. But you started this, monsieur, you wanted to talk, so let us finish talking.”

“We _are_ finished.” He said. “I am not going to sit and wait for you to burn down my life here as well. Your mother betrayed me, your best friend betrayed me. What are you but a viper in my nest?”

He saw the tears in her eyes and made himself turn his back on them. He strode across the first floor of the house and disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to sift through the ruins of their conversation alone.


	10. Chapter 10

Erik had been awake for most of the day, and unable to venture downstairs. He had listened for footsteps and heard none. He’d listened for the faint sound of kitchenware but there was nothing. He had even waited to hear the door open or close, and all he received in return was that oppressive silence whose embrace was now too foreign for him to find comfort in it. He picked up his violin and faced the large window. The sun was already setting over the city, bathing his generous view in orange and gold. Erik put down his violin and pulled the curtains shut, darkening his room. He picked up his violin again and continued the sombre melody that had occupied most of his day. He kept stopping midway, unable to fully play out what he felt. Each time he would hit a wall that felt like guilt, and he’d stop, unwilling to go any further.

By nightfall, he had no choice but to face the emptiness of his home. He had thought Meg’s sadness of the night before had been dampening, but the utter silence was somehow worse. He walked downstairs, pleased to note that he was still comfortable in the dark. He found and candle, lit it, and sat down at the dining table where it had all unravelled so spectacularly. He was angry, and tired, and lonely. He was not made for solitude; it had been thrust upon him, yet another cruel gift of life’s, but he craved company. It came to him that she had mentioned a women’s boarding house a few streets over.

He could find her.

He had no words of substance to offer, but he could find her first, and work on the details later. He did not expect any miracles; he had learned from the tragedy of Christine, and now Antoinette, that no one truly wanted to be with him. But he could look at her and draw comfort and strength from that, the way he used to draw comfort from watching Christine exist.

He stood up. He was a man with a plan. He walked to the door, ready to take his cape off the wall hook and venture into the winter night in search of his dancer, when he spotted a figure on the floor next to the door. He had missed her because she lay on the floor, her head pillowed by the small bag she brought with her from Paris. He had not known the extent of his worry and grief until he felt sweet relief. She was asleep, breathing steadily and lightly, but she was still here, with him. He knelt beside her and indulged himself by touching an open palm lightly to her cheek. She shifted and his snapped his hand back, afraid to be caught. “Marguerite.” He said. She shifted again but did not wake.

“Marguerite.” He wanted to grab her shoulder and shake her, but he could not bring himself to touch her. It felt wrong for him to do so. Instead, he knocked on the wall above her head. She sat up quickly, knocking his hand onto her shoulder and the softness of her hair fell against his hand. He pulled away quick and rose to his feet.

“I thought you had left.” He said. He wore his detachment as armour.

Meg stood up and brushed down her skirt. “I wanted to speak to you before I left, but you never came down, so I waited.”

He let the silence stretch between them until she spoke. “You asked me to leave, and I have everything packed.” She gestured to her bag, and then look at him. There was no mischief in her gaze, no spark of defiance or teasing, she laid herself bare, “Do you truly want me to leave?”

He tightened his grip on the candle stick. He wished she had stated that she did not want to leave, so he could accept it and be done. But she had left him with half the responsibility of being honest, but he had erred by acting out so brashly and kicking her out and this was his penance. “No, Marguerite.”

“Because you’re responsible for me and you’d sleep better knowing where I was?”

He shook his head. Antoinette had given him up and with that, released him from any debt he owed her. “I don’t owe the debt I thought I did. I’d prefer you stay because I have grown accustomed to your presence.” 

“I am glad.” She looked down at her hands.

Erik shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I have something for you.”

“What?” She asked,

“We made a deal, and I still have to give you something in return for your truth.”

“That was mostly a joke, monsieur.” She said and waved him away.

“No, I am a man of my word.” He cleared his throat and threw his shoulders back. He seemed to grow larger, as his entire body commanded the space around them. He was wearing the phantom of the opera as a shield, again.

“As you wish.” She said slowly, “Just no money.”

He let out a short breath that, on another man, might had been a laughed. “I’d like to give you my name. It is Erik Mulheim.”

“Wow,” She said, she blinked slowly, and then tried his name, “Monsieur Mulheim.”

“You may call me Erik.”

She allowed herself a small smile, “Erik. It’s simpler than I would have guess. You may call me Meg. I think Marguerite is too formal for me.” 

Meg rubbed the fabric of her coat between her fingers. The house felt too small for the words between them. She shifted the coat from one arm to the other, then she turned, pulled aside one of the curtains, and looked outside. The ground was covered with a fine dusting of snow, but the sky was clear. “I’ve been inside all day.” She said, she twisted the heavy burgundy curtain around her fingers. “Would you care to join me for a walk?”

He took his coat off the wall and nodded to the door. A walk did not seem appropriate at the moment, but it was what he needed. He had thoughts he needed to air, and questions that their small home could not contain.


	11. Chapter 11

They kept to the shadows and empty streets where Erik felt more comfortable. She was fine with this; it intrigued her to see another side of the city. “Erik.” She said. It felt strange to call him by his true name; as if a chasm between them had been filled and she could cross, if she trusted the loose earth. “What made you so angry yesterday? Was it because I used you to escape Paris?”

“I am comforted knowing that you had a reason for helping me. I was suspicious of the young ballerina who would throw everything away for the monster who burnt down her home.” He said plainly.

Meg buried her hands into the fabric of her coat. “Then, what was it?”

Erik fell silent. Laughter from a street away echoed down their empty corridor, and the clatter of carriage wheels and horse hooves grew, and then faded. Erik took a deep breath of the sharp winter air, and finally spoke, “I’ve known your mother for a long time. She rescued me when I was just a boy, hid me away and gave me a chance to live some sort of life, in some sort of dignity. She is not family to me; I have no family. But she was close, and I trusted her with my life.” He paused for a beat, and Meg saw the weight of what he was giving her. He was hurt and confiding in her. She pulled her coat tighter across her chest blinked back the tears; she did not think he would take kindly to her crying for him. “It is understandable that she tired of me. I burnt down her home because I have no self-control, because I respect nothing and value no one. I think of nothing but myself. Yesterday, I blamed her. Today, I see she was right. That the viscount or his mob had succeeded in killing me would have done the world a great favour.”

Meg grasped his arm and stopped walking, forcing him to stop as well. “Never say that.”

He looked at her as one would look at a child who had just asked ‘why can’t everyone just be happy’. “Do you know what I have done? I have murdered.”

“Buquet.” She shocked herself with the ease with which she said his name. He had been a terrible man and to some a danger, but he had still been a man and his life had been worth something. Yet here she spoke his name as though he were dismissible.

Erik looked surprised for a moment, but quickly recovered himself. “And Piangi.”

Meg blinked. She had been unaware. Erik, seeing the shock on her face, pressed on, “I almost killed the viscount in front of Christine.”

“I saw.” Meg said quietly. “I saw you make her choose.” 

“So, it is accurate to say that if I am not a monster, I have at the very least done monstrous things.”

Meg could not find it in herself to be afraid of him. They stood in a dark backstreet with no one but the winter air for company. She was entirely at his mercy, and she was fine with that. “We all have a terrible side. Even the holiest of us.” She said. “Look at me -”

“What did you do? You ran away?” He interrupted with thinly veiled condescension.

Meg noticed that she still held on to his arm, and she released him. Weaving her hands together, she turned her back to him, “I’ve dreamt of killing a man. I know what love can make you do, what it can turn you into. I don’t think I would ever have it in me to kill him, but if I had had a chance, I think I would have hurt him back, with little regret.”

She turned around, and stood before him, open to any judgement he would pass over her for such dark thoughts. She wanted him to see that heartbreak was universal and it could, if unchecked, lead good people down dark paths. “We are all a little bit monstrous; we just learn to not let our emotions overpower us.”

Erik stepped to her. “We are not equivalent.”

“You let her go. I saw you. You put her happiness before yours, when you had the power to make everyone hurt, as you were hurting. You’re a good man, who has made mistakes.” She wrapped her hand around his and prayed he would not snatch himself away. She had never confessed this much of herself to anyone, and between the ease with which she revealed herself to him and the sickening fear she had felt when he had asked her to leave, she was forced to admit that he had grown dear to her.

“You think I’m a good man?”

“I know you are. That’s why I waited at the door today; I knew you wouldn’t send me away without a true explanation, if I asked.”

He looked away from her and carefully removed his hand from hers. “I apologise for my temper yesterday. I should have had more control over myself.”

“It is already forgiven.” And she meant it, by the time she woke up the next morning she had already forgiven him. “However, if you insist on some grand gesture of amends, I’d like it if you’d walk to the square with me.” She read the apprehension in his face, “we can still keep to the shadows, I just love to see it. It’s beautiful.”

“As you wish.”

She slipped her arm into his, a gesture she had performed a thousand times with her friends. It made her feel closer to them. They walked to the square in companionable silence, and when they reach the brightly lit heart of their quarter, she could not help but grin. There was a charm to the liveliness of the night here, the sheer joy of life that permeated the whole square was intoxicating and she could never imagine tiring of it.

“There,” She pointed to a small restaurant with a deep green awning. “Their soups can make you see heaven. And the bread…” She breathed deeply, as if she could smell the food from across the square, “I dine there once in a while, my second job allows me to indulge from time to time.” She wanted to go out into the square, walk boldly across it and greet the faces that had, over the weeks, grown familiar to her. But she could not imagine leaving Erik standing alone in the shadows, and so she stayed with him.

“You have another job?”

“Ah, I’m officially an errand girl now.” There was a sad resignation in her voice, but she quickly masked it with laughter. “I run errands for a local priest. I do odd jobs too. He pays me and helps me when he can. Do you remember the boarding house I almost stayed at?”

“You were never going to stay in a convent boarding house.”

“It is _affiliated_ with a convent. He helped me find a place there. He’s a sweet man, Niccolo.”

“You call a priest by his first name?”

“Oh, yes, when you sin as much as I do, you end up on first name terms with your priest.” She joked. “His parish isn’t far from here; would you like to meet him?”

“No, I would not.” Erik said.

“Would you like to see where I spend my time when I’m not at home, or trying to get an audition?” She asked.

He paused, as if contemplating the question. “Very well.”

“Oh, don’t be too excited.” Meg said dryly as she led him away from the square whose liveliness she could not partake in, and towards the quiet church that had grown into a cornerstone of her life in Milan.


	12. Chapter 12

Meg wrote quickly as the priest spoke. “I hope you will see things from my perspective,” he said as he paced up and down his small office. He stopped at the desk where she wrote neatly and dutifully. He placed his hands on a chair across from her and leaned forwards, “I look forward to hearing swiftly from you. Yours Truly, Niccolo Alexandre Parma” he looked at the neat writing on the table, “It’s a hyphenated name.” Meg drew a careful dash between the two names. He nodded, satisfied. She folded the note and slipped it into an empty envelope.

She raised the quill above the envelope and asked, “Address?”

Before Niccolo could answer, a sharp knock on the open office door drew both their attentions. A dark-haired man stepped into the room. He was of average height, slender, but simultaneously impeccably and extravagantly dressed. “I am late, and I apologise.” He said immediately.

“I’d be surprised if you were on time.” Niccolo said good-naturedly.

The man grinned and shrugged, “As long as my friends know me.” He turned his attention to Meg, “And who is this lovely angel among us?”

She caught the general idea of the question, and was rehearsing her self-introduction in Italian, but Niccolo beat her to it. “This is Margeurite Giry, she arrived in Milan from Paris a number of weeks ago. She was a dancer in a ballet chorus. I was hoping you could grant her an audition and see if she is suitable for your chorus.”

Megs eyes widened and shot to the priest. He smiled at her and winked. It took all her strength not to leap to her feet in joy. “Meg, this is Luca Li Fonti, he’s an old friend and the manager of the Opera and Ballet theatre.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Meg. I may call you Meg? We are all friends here.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. His French was not as good as Niccolo’s, and it was peppered with Italian, but she understood him perfectly.

Meg stood up quickly, “Of course Signor Li Fonti.” She forced herself to speak in Italian as held out her hand.

He took her hand gently in his and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “Luca, please.” He said softly, he held her gaze and smiled.

Niccolo cleared his throat loudly and gave Luca a warning glare. “Behave yourself, Luca. Do you have time to see Meg dance?”

“Of course. Do you have references from your previous ballet house?”

She clasped her hands together and looked away, “No. I was in an opera house, and it burned down in an accident.”

“How tragic. And you chose to change cities? Wouldn’t it have been easier to restart in Paris?” Luca asked. Meg searched for a way to evade his question without lying. Something about lying in front of a priest felt wrong.

“She had her reasons for leaving. I asked you to help with an audition, not an interrogation.” Niccolo said, coming to her rescue.

“Ok, keep your secrets. I don’t care much for gossip.” Luca said, raising his hands in defeat. He looked at Meg carefully and folded his hands across his chest. “I am travelling for a few days, and then I’m busy.” He took in a sharp breath, and considered carefully, “this is a personal favour to you Niccolo, so I want to be there when she auditions. How does next Thursday work for you, Meg?”

She bit her bottom lip and tried, futilely, to supress a smile. “Next Thursday is perfect.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you at noon.” Luca said to her. He looked over her shoulder, “And now we go for lunch?” He said to Niccolo.

“Go ahead, I’ll meet you downstairs.” The priest said.

Immediately Luca left Meg turned to Niccolo. He was standing now, head and shoulders above her. “How can I ever thank you?”

“I’ve watched you work, Meg. You are disciplined and reliable, I had no qualms personally recommending you. You are in a new city; the least I, as priest, can do is to help you find your feet.”

She was so happy, so thankful, that she forgot herself. She took his hands and squeezed them affectionately, “Thank you, so much. For everything. You don’t know me, yet you have been nothing but kind and helpful.”

His black eyes, usually so focused and sharp, softened and he squeezed her hands in return, “Stop thanking me.”

“How could I?”

A loud crash from downstairs brought her sharply back into reality and she realised what she had done. She removed her hands quickly and looked away, a soft blush of shame spread across her cheek. “I’m sorry, I forgot myself. I was just so happy.” She turned back to the table and picked up the envelope that was waiting for a delivery address.

“Never mind that, I’ll finish it myself. You can go.”

Meg put the envelope down and cast one last look at Niccolo, “thank you.”

“Enough.” The priest laughed. She smiled and ran out of the office and down the stairs. She could not get home quickly enough. She had to practice. What would she perform? What would she wear? She was scared, and excited.

At the bottom of the stairs, she saw Luca hurriedly trying to arrange a table. “It was an accident. It wasn’t balanced properly.”

“Thank you, signor. I promise I won’t waste your time.” She slowed down just enough to thank him again, before running out the church. She ran through the streets, not caring that she must have looked somewhat mad. All that mattered, right now, was getting into her ballet shoes and practicing. The cold air was kisses of encouragement across her cheeks. She had nine days to practice, nine days to set herself on the path of becoming the ballerina she dreamed of being.

She ran into the house, and straight to the piano, but Erik was not behind the piano. She ran to the stairs that led to his room. “Erik!” She called from the bottom of the stairs. He appeared on the landing, clearly surprised to see her back so early. “Erik! I have an audition!” She could barely contain herself. She ran up the stairs to him and took his hands, “with the Opera and ballet theatre. I could soon be a dancer again!”

She let go of him and breathed, trying to calm her racing heart. “I need to practice. Would you help me?”

“In any way I can.” He said.

“I need help because…” her excitement began to fade, and fear began to bloom in its place. “I don’t know what to do: what do I perform? What do I wear? I’ve never had an audition before.”

Erik frowned at her words, “What do you mean you’ve never had an audition?”

Meg leaned against the banister and placed her shaking hands against her thighs. “In Paris, I was always in the chorus. Mama never let me audition for anything else, she said it was better as a dancer not to draw attention.” There were tears on her cheeks before she knew she was crying, “I’m not prepared.” She looked at Erik, his eyes were soft as the afternoon sky and he looked at her with concern, “I’m so lost.”

“Don’t doubt yourself, Meg. I am here to help you.”

She wiped her cheeks with her palms. “I want this, Erik. I really, truly want this.”

“And you shall have it.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Erik,”

He had handed over his name without much thought. At first, he had held on to it out of stubbornness, and only when he thought she was worthy of addressing him did he relinquish it. But he had not understood what he was giving away, what she could do with it. No one called him by his given name; there had never been anyone to call him. Foolishly, thoughtlessly, he had given it up and now he was like a man hypnotised. When she called, he had to answer. No matter what he was doing, she could drag him out of the deepest of concentrations just to see what she desired. With his name on her lips, he was like a man collared and he did not know how or why.

She tied up the laces on her shoes and stood up, “I’m ready.”

He placed his fingers on the cool ivories and she stepped into the space he had cleared for her. He began to play a piece from Hannibal, and she danced never missing a beat, never hesitating with a step. She had danced it a hundred times over, and its practiced perfection he could see where she and the music met most gracefully. As he watched her a piece came to mind, an old chorus for an Opera that had never been. It was a mesmerizing, ethereal tune, and seeing the near impossible fluidity of her movements, he knew it was the song for her. Now to find it. It had to be in his chest of works; everything he had every written was precious to him, and he never threw a piece away. But there were many, many pieces and this was one song he vaguely remembered.

He finished the piece and Meg stopped dancing. “Comments?” She asked. She was smiling, pleased with the technical perfection of her performance.

“I am not a trained dancer, so I fear I had little to contribute regarding your technique. But I am a man of the opera,”

“A ghost.” She interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“You are a ghost of the opera. It was a joke.” She laughed, amused by the deliberate awfulness of her own joke.

“as a _man_ of the opera, I do have something to say about presentation.” He turned in his seat and faced her directly. Meg stood straight and clasped her hands in front of her, putting on a great show of the obedient student listening to critique. Shi gave him a small half smile full of mischief and good humour. He leaned forward without realising it, his whole body pulled towards her without his consent.

“When you perform, you are not offering just a song or a dance; you are offering an experience. The audience must be enthralled from the moment they set eyes on you, because their imagination will carry your performance to heights impossible to reach by talent and work alone.”

“So I must trick them into believing I am better than I actually am?” She said, half teasing.

“It’s not a trick,” He stood up, indicating that their brief practice was done for the moment, “it’s part of the theatre. I have a piece I believe will suit you quite well. For now, practice your basics and I will see you in the morning.”

Erik stayed up late into the night searching for the one piece of music he knew he had written. There was little in the world more precious to him than his work, and in planning his escape he had gathered every piece and had them sent ahead to Milan. Now he stared at the seemingly endless stack of paper. The piece was not where it was meant to be, among his unfinished works. He sat among nearly two decades worth of work and carefully sifted through the papers. The piece was about a water nymph who leaves her lake on a dare, but in the long hours of searching, it became Meg’s song. She would dance it well, even without the accompanying chorus and the glory of a full ensemble, she’d do it wonderous justice. He could already picture her, dressed in white and moving like water made human.

He knew he could trust her with his music because, like him, she knew her first love was her art. She had abandoned everything she had for the freedom to pursue her art, she had worn her shoes thin searching down every music hall and dance mistress in the city for a chance. He had heard her, more than once practicing to her own humming. His was to create sound, hers was to create movement, but in the end, they were both driven by the same thing – their complete surrender to their art. She would treat his music well, because she too understood. 

Sometime, right before the sun rose, he found it. The elusive piece was nestled between completed works. He carried it over to his bedside table and it placed it carefully underneath a book. He crawled into his bed to steal what few hours of sleep he could. When he pressed his face to the pillow, he realised that he was still wearing his mask. His raised his hand to the cool hardness of the mask to peel it off, and he remember his train ride to Milan. Well, parts of it. It felt like years ago, but he could still see Meg leaning over his sleeping cot, touching him without fear or disgust. He ran his fingers over the curve of mask that sat on his cheekbones. She had guess, correctly, that the mask occasionally irritated his skin, and she had asked him not to wear it. She had probably been desensitised to his grotesqueness from having to care for him – he had not known that was possible. He peeled the mask off his face and wondered if she would still make such a request now that she had been protected from his face for so long. He turned towards the empty half of his bed and wondered if she could look into his misshapen eye and still smile.

He slept for longer than he planned to, and by the time he left his room he could already hear the soft sound of her feet against the floor as she practiced, diligent and committed as always. She noticed him as he descended the stairs, and she spun, stopped, and brought her hells down gently. She was already smiling at him. Whenever he entered a room, she always seemed to have a smile for him, and it still made him uncomfortable to be welcomed so. He did not understand why she would smile at his presence, and the attention made him unbearably self-conscious: he became too aware of his limbs and how they moved, how much space he took up, and the obvious falsity of the carefully detached expression he fought to keep on. “I think this is the first time, ever, that you have slept in.” She said.

“It won’t happen again.” He placed the manuscript on the piano.

“It makes you seem human. Is that the song?”

He sat behind the piano, and carefully avoiding her gaze, fixed his attention on the piece he was to play. It had a name, but in his mind that name had been usurped and it was now, and forever, Meg’s song. “Listen, and then see what you can do with it.” He said. He placed his hands on the piano keys, stole a glance at her, and then began to play. It was light and playful, full of youthful fairy mischief. It was a good song, he had just never crafted a full piece to match this tone that was so atypical of him. She moved easily as she let herself be lifted by the music and when it was over, she broke into applause.

“It’s gorgeous, Erik. You wrote this?”

“Of course I did.” He said defensively.

“I didn’t mean that you were not _capable_ , it’s just very different from your other pieces. Everything you wrote for the Opera Populaire was so much heavier and darker. This is like champagne in spring.”

“I am capable of a vast range of styles, Meg.”

“Oh, now I certainly believe you.” She lifted her hands above her head and stretched, “I’m excited to choreograph this. I cannot wait.” She looked directly at him with warmth and true gratitude, “Thank you, Erik.”

Erik looked down at his piano keys, “Let’s begin.” He said, unintentionally swallowing his words as he spoke.

He was impressed by her and wondered, not for the first time, how the managers had let her stay hidden in the chorus. True, the Opera Populaire leaned heavily towards sung pieces, but they had ballet pieces that could have thrived with her talent. But then again, he had not noticed her either, so how much blame could he truly put on the managers? He too had given little thought to ballets.

Yesterday, she had demonstrated a perfection of technique that came only for endless hours of rigorous, disciplined practice. Today, she weaved dance and music together in seemingly effortless inspiration. He saw when she changed her mind, when she corrected herself, when – on another play through of the song – she would shift her movements, but she made it _seem_ effortless, and therein lay the magic of her dance. He remembered that, as a child, she had always stood out in the chorus for how she seemed to feel the music, perhaps it was a side effect of growing up in an opera house, but now she could became the music made flesh. He wished he knew more about dance; perhaps he would not have been so enthralled by her performance, so tempted to call her movements ‘mastery’. But in this field, he had an amateur’s eye, and to this eye she was genius.

He stopped playing, allowing her a break and Meg sank to the floor, her legs folded beneath her. “I think I’m almost satisfied with the choreography of the first half. I’ll probably sleep tonight and then wake up tomorrow inspired and ready to change everything, but that’s how art goes, right?” She visibly tired, but still lively. He envied her energy and seemingly bottomless enthusiasm.

“Art is fickle and exacting.” He said, nodding in agreement. “You’re a gifted dancer.”

She blushed slightly, and rubbed her hands over each other in her lap, “I’ve heard more praises in the past few days than I have my entire life and finally, I feel justified.”

“Justified?” Erik asked.

“I have little natural talent in ballet, and I accepted that as a child. But I wanted to be great, so I have trained – in addition to practice – morning and night, every day, since I was six. In Paris it felt as if my work was for nothing because no one ever saw me. Here, I hope Signor Li Fonti sees me.”

He was impressed by her drive, and later he would think more about it. But right now, something else caught his attention. “Li Fonti?” He had never heard that name. It seemed she had a whole life outside the walls of their home, a life secret from him that he only managed to get glimpses of through the occasionally dropped name.

Meg nodded, “Luca Li Fonti. He’s the manager of the Opera and Ballet theatre. I’ll be dancing for him.”

“The manager is auditioning you himself? How did you achieve that?”

Her shoulders perked up and she grinned like a school-girl, “You know Father Niccolo Parma? I’ve mentioned him before.”

Erik leaned back and rested his hands against the piano frame. “The priest you run errands for?”

“Yes. He’s old friends with Signor Li Fonti and arranged an audition for me. Given how much he has helped me, I should feel worse about never attending mass or confession.” She leaned back and looked up to the ceiling. “I know this audition is for a role in the chorus, but if I try hard enough, maybe Luca will see that he should consider me for a coryphée, maybe I’ll get to dance in a quartet or trio, and then one day I’ll have a solo.” She spoke lightly, as if dreaming. “ _This_ is why I came here. In the Opera Populaire it would have been silly of me to dream of such things.”

“Because Antoinette would not have allowed it?”

“Never! Her little Meg out there alone for all those men to _see_ to _gawk_ at? Absolutely not.” Meg shook her head. Her voice dropped from mocking to quietly serious, “I know my father never acknowledge me, or her, but that is not a reason to hide me away as though I will certainly make the same mistake.”

This was a deep wound that still stung, and he could tell just from the change in her face. Erik was, in that moment, shocked by how much he knew her. He had learned a great deal about many people from watching them at a distance, observing their movements, and eaves dropping on their private conversations. But the way he knew Meg Giry was different; she opened up to him, gave him permission to see her, and he saw not just the what, but they why and the how. He knew why she danced and why she used mischief to mask uncertainty. He saw the selfish in her along with the selfless, he saw the penchant for wine, the deliberate mask of innocence and naivety she knew she could wear at will. He saw the impetuous and the brave, the insecure and the resolute. He saw all of it, and it looked like perfection.

“She must be worried.” He said. He looked at the piano keys, at the ceiling, at his hands, and the curtains: anywhere but at her.

“I write to her once a week, to let her know I’m alive and I’m fine.”

“And she hasn’t replied? Or come down here to steal you away?”

Meg let out a short laugh, “I’m not stupid, Erik. I send letters with no return address, and I pay a little extra to make sure it is not postmarked out of Italy, and that it passes through another country first. Sometimes it goes via Austria, sometimes via Switzerland.” She drummed her fingers against the floor, “I’m a terrible daughter.”

“You’ve done a very thorough job of kidnapping yourself.” He commended her intelligence, and he meant it.

“I did not have much, but I left behind the little I did have to pursue this dream; I am not going to let my mother show up and drag it away from me. I always wanted to be more than a chorus girl, but I never dreamt I could until I saw I saw how Christine rose, and I thought: if Christine, then why not me? That was before I knew she had you, her secret guide. But I don’t need a secret guide; I can do this myself. I simply have to work.”

“Christine was special.” He spoke sharply. He turned away from her and pretended to arrange the sheet music in front of him, all the while he scratched at the irritation that had appeared like a devil trying to worm its way into his heart. He had dealt with the memory of Christine, quietly and privately. This irritation was new; it seemed to have sprung out of nothing. “I will leave you to your work.” He stood up and marched upstairs before she could finish objecting.

Locked away in his room, he continued to scratch relentlessly at the irritation. She had implied that she did not need him, but he did not want her to need him. He had stayed up through the night searching for her song as a favour; she had been helper and companion since he left Paris, and it was only right he helped her however he could. He sat on his bed and looked up at his ceiling, knowing what was happening to him, but refusing to accept it.

In the darkness of his room, he wondered what life would have been life if he had not made that promise to Antoinette. He would have known kindness from a younger age, and he would not have been as lonely; someone like Meg would certainly have sought him out a hundred times because she had questions or because she merely wanted to or, more importantly, because she too felt caged and smothered by the Opera Populaire. He would have known is own limits because she would have neither deified nor indulged him; she would have called each flare of him temper a ‘tantrum’ and reminded him that he was just a man, which was what he wanted; to feel like, and be seen as, a man. He did believe she had a natural talent for dance, though she disputed it. What could not be disputed was her absolute diligence, and if he had caught her and turned that focus and discipline towards music, who knows what she could have unlocked?

Erik stood up sharply, frustrated with himself. He was doing it again. First, he had put Christine on a pedestal and elevated her to the purest vessel for his music, destined to make his art truly live. Now, he was raising Meg to the status of guardian of his humanity. It was a bad path he was pursuing. He may have been a stubborn man, but he learned from his mistakes and he knew he had to stop himself.


	14. Chapter 14

She was nervous, but she refused to let it show as stood alone on the stage waiting for the manager’s judgement. She had done the best she could; she had rehearsed tirelessly and taken all the advice Erik had offered. He told her to be a presence on stage, and so she had tried to be. He asked her to wear something white with bared shoulders, she had done so. He told her how to wear her hair, and to wear only a single, thing bracelet. She had done everything the master of theatre had suggested, and now she waited for judgement.

Luca steepled his hands underneath his chin and narrowed his eyes as if deep in thought. “You said you were a chorus girl?”

“Yes, in Paris.”

“For how long?”

Meg paused to think for a moment, and said, “I grew up in the Opera Populaire, and I started dancing with the children’s chorus when I was seven and stayed there until I left for Italy.”

“And you couldn’t get a reference from the Opera Populaire?”

“It burned down.” She had told him this before and wondered why he was asking again.

“And the ballet mistress?”

Meg shifted her weight from one foot to the other, “She wasn’t supportive of my move to Italy.” It was not a lie; her mother was not supportive of her moving anywhere out of sight.

Luca placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward with a smile. “Well, it was an experience to see you dance. I will always remember this moment, the first time I saw Marguerite Giry dance. It would be an honour to have you join our humble theatre.”

“Thank you, Signor Li Fonti.” She beamed. It took all her self-control not to leap off the stage in joy.

“Please, Luca. A friend of Niccolo’s is a friend of mine. How soon can you join us?”

“As soon as you’d like. My sole commitment is to dance.”

Luca stood up and walked to the stage. He offered his hand, and she allowed him to help her off the stage. “I can see that, Meg. Tomorrow 7am, I’d like to see you here. But we don’t have a spot for a chorus girl; we will have to find something more fitting of your talents.”

“Thank you so much. This means more to me than you could ever imagine.” Meg gathered up her belongings and sped out of the theatre. Once again, she was racing down the streets of Milan, excited to return home and share the wonderful news with Erik.

Niccolo Parma drummed his fingers absently against his desk. He had not realised how much of a fixture she had become in his office, but, now, sitting along and knowing that she was not going to burst into his office with some package or letter for him, or some questions about navigating Milan. Somehow, he had grown quite fond of the younger French woman.

There was a sharp knock at his door, and he sat forward in a more respectable and alert manner. “Come in.” said.

The door opened, and Luca strode in, looking as though his clothes had been freshly turned out of the laundry that very moment. He adjusted his bright orange necktie and settled comfortably into a chair across from Niccolo. “Your little dancer.” Luca said, his eyes seemingly far away from the priest’s office.

“I assume the audition went well.” Niccolo said, relaxing into his seat. There were visitors that required the stately grace of a priest, but Luca was not one of them.

“She said she was a chorus girl, but I find that hard to believe. You should have seen the ballet mistress while she watched her dance; she doesn’t believe Meg was a chorus girl either. I think she’s hiding something.” Luca spoke half to himself, and half to Niccolo.

“You think she’s hiding something? Then why claim to be a chorus girl only to audition and be caught in a lie? And what a strange thing to lie about.”

“I’m not sure, Niccolo. But the piece she danced to, it was a unique piece. I asked her who wrote it, and she found a way to not answer. I’ve noticed, she is quite good at that.” Luca fidgeted with his tie. “I still offered her a position. I had to.”

“You don’t trust her, yet you _had_ to offer her a position?” Niccolo asked

Luca lifted one eyebrow questioningly. “I asked for an audition,” Niccolo pointed out innocently, “I never made any demands.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Luca said drily. He shrugged, “Anyway, she’s a marvellous dancer and I would have hired her of my own will, nonetheless. As for not trusting her story, a pretty woman moves into the city with little of her past; of course she is hiding something.”

Niccolo nodded. “She doesn’t seem to be haunted by any past misdeeds, and now she has a home in the theatre, as she dreamed. I guess my work is done.”

“Is it?” Luca teased, “How are those priest robes fitting? Still not tight after almost a year.”

Niccolo frowned, “No. They are as comfortable as the date I got them. No one believes me, but you will all see; I’m a changed man.”

“Even with that little dancer you’ve been keeping around? I think you took the seminary joke too far; we get your point, you are not the impulsive hedonist we all claim. You can return to normal life now.”

“It was never a joke, Luca. I’ve pledged myself to the church. And as for Meg, I was simply guiding a lost soul in Milan, and now I have handed her over into your capable hands.” 

“Well, it is not as though I am carrying her out of Italy. You can see dance if you’d like. We’re slated to run Coppelia, and I think she would make for a superb Coppelia.”

“You’re already giving her a solo?” Niccolo asked, more than a little surprised “from chorus to solo.”

“If she was a chorus girl, I’ll eat my tie. Your family’s box is always on reserve, I think you should stop by for at least one showing.”

“If I find the time.” Niccolo said, feigning indifference. He already knew he would stop by to her dance; he was oddly fond of her and having guided her through the beginnings of her journey in Milan, he was looking forward to seeing her take the next steps.


	15. Chapter 15

The powder and rouge made her look exactly like a doll. But it was the lovely yet perfectly still tilt of her head and the steadiness of her fingers around the book that truly sold the image. When the young man paused at the window and gazed at her with immediate infatuation, the whole audience could understand.

Erik had never given ballets much thought; his favoured instrument was the voice and so the opera took centre stage in his love of the art. But she was making a convert out of him. When she danced, she sold the vision of a doll made to move and the unspoken promise of true beauty and elegance if she were brought to life.

Erik rolled the stem of the white rose between his fingers. He had brought it as a gift, a simple acknowledgement of her achievements. Watching her, stilled in doll-like lifelessness for several moments at a time, he could truly take her in. She was normally moving too fast for him to truly grasp what it was she elicited in him. There was gratitude, administration, irritation, desire, and a host of all others ricocheting in his head and in his heart, as she ran from here to there, sparred with him with her sharp mouth, mocked him, cared for him, pulled him in and pushed him away. But finally, in the role of Coppelia, she was forced to stop. Erik’s grip tightened around the rose. How he wished she had never stopped.

It took the entire first act for him to accept that the care he felt for her was no longer innocent, and the desire she sparked in him was no longer purely base. Watching her, he felt the flame of longing light his whole being. Like the weak man he was, he had fallen in love with Marguerite Giry. He sat back in his chair, unable to properly watch the second act. Each scene was torture as guilt wracked him. He could not do this to her. He could not let his heart run free as he had with Christine; he would, again, lose his sanity to the promise love and undoubtedly turn this life she was building for herself into a nightmare. He knew he was a weak man, but he would have to be strong. He owed her too much to insult her with his affection.

The final act came to a close and Erik dropped the rose he intended to gift her onto the floor of his private booth. He stepped out of the booth and headed downstairs. He did not need gifts to congratulate her; he could do so with words, as an honest friend would. He would remove all temptations, all possible hints at this disastrous affection. He would eat his own heart if he had to.

He watched, at a distance and from the shadows, as she received her congratulations and well wishes. He spotted the manager, whom he recognised from her descriptions of his impossibly colourful choice of clothing. She was such a wonder and wished he could be beside her, but the sight of a man in a mask would draw attention away from her performance and he could never steal her spotlight. What she finally found time alone, he emerged from the shadows and showed himself.

“Christ, Erik. Must you always do that?” he had startled her again.

“Must you jump at every slight movement?” He teased.

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully, before breaking out in a bright smile. “I thought you didn’t come.”

“How would that thought ever cross your mind?”

“Well I didn’t see you when everyone else came around, so I thought…” she let her voice trail off and shrugged.

“I don’t like crowds.”

“I know. I just selfishly wanted you beside me; I wouldn’t be here without your support.” She spoke softly and kept her eyes cast downward. “I mean, we’ve being going out into the city during the day, maybe next time you’ll come and see me earlier.”

No matter how many walks they took together through the city, he was still unable to understand that she wanted him around, and that she did not mind being seen with him, malformed as he was. He tried to steel himself against the simple display of affection, but he was weak against it and it warmed his yearning heart. “I have a cab waiting for us outside.”

She slipped her arm in his, and the feel of her against him was like proof of heaven. “I cannot wait to hear all your pointers from my performance. Will you be here again tomorrow?” She said.

He walked with her, all the while scolding himself for the hope that fluttered in his chest. “You don’t need direction from me. And yes, I will come again, if you wish me to.”

They stepped out of the theatre and into the cool night air. Her joy was intoxicating, and he found himself smiling at nothing. “I’ve had a solo, Erik.” She said for what had to be the hundredth time. “Me. Alone. I _can_ do this. I _am_ a good dancer.”

“You’re quite a bit better than a good dancer.”

She laughed at him compliment, “I never took you for a flatterer.”

He was about to tell her that he did not flatter people and that he had merely spoken what he believed to be true, when someone called her and they both looked up the street.

“Meg! I did not miss you!” a tall man with hair nearly as yellow as hers walked quickly to them. He carried a bouquet of flowers large enough to drown his own hands, where he had found them in this season, Erik could only guess.

“These flowers arrived late, and I had to pick them up myself, but I did not miss your debut. Luca was correct; you were phenomenal.”

“Those are so beautiful, and also so many. I don’t know what to say.” Meg stared at the flowers, her eyes shone with wonder and appreciation.

“Say nothing of it.” He smiled at her. He then nodded towards the cab that pulled up beside them, “Is this for you? I’ll put the flowers inside.”

Meg looked at Erik, “Is this our cab?”

“Yes, it is.” He replied, and he opened the door for the young priest to put the flowers down.

“Sorry, I have such poor manners. Niccolo, you know I assured you that I did not travel to Milan alone and was being cared for by an old friend? This is him, monsieur Erik Mulheim.” She then turned to Erik and spoke, “And, Erik, you know the wonderful priest who helped me get an audition? The one I have been trying to make you meet? He’s here, Father Niccolo Parma.”

The two men shook hands, Erik more coolly than the good-natured priest who seemed not to notice Erik’s standoffish demeanour. “I can now die a happy man, knowing you truly aren’t wandering the streets of Milan alone.” Niccolo said.

“No, I couldn’t even dream of doing that. Erik could kidnap me and bring me home.” 

Niccolo laughed, that hearty, cheery laugh of a person who had never faced a moment of lacking or adversity in their life, “Monsieur Mulheim, I hope you would not be upset if I borrowed Meg for a quick chat in private?”

He wanted to refuse, but he could not. Just as he wanted to dislike the personable priest with his easy manner and trusting face, but he could not. He shrugged his assent, knowing that to do anything else would be to invite Meg’s wrath.

Meg walked up the street with Niccolo. “Why do you need to speak to me alone?” She asked.

“It’s minor, but Luca does not believe that you were a chorus girl in Paris. I know you came to Milan for your own reasons, and I would never pressure you into divulging more about your past than you comfortable with. But, I hope you know that I care for you. You can trust me, and if you ever need to speak, or you ever need help, I always be here.”

Meg nodded, “Thank you. It’s also doing wonders for my confidence that he believes so strongly that I am better than just the chorus. And thank you for the flowers, this is the first time I’ve received anything for a performance.” She shifted her weight, “I received bonbons as a child for my very first performance, but I am not sure that counts. However, I still remember that gift with the greatest fondness, and I will always remember these flowers.”

“You’ve helped me a lot; I wouldn’t even have been on that stage without your help.” She lifted her hands to her head and pulled out the soft blue ribbon that held up her hair. “I have no grand amour to give this to, but I hope you’ll accept it as a token of my thanks and a souvenir of my debut.”

“Of course, and I’ll cherish it, Meg.”

Erik watched her return to his side with her hair down. He had watched the whole exchange as surreptitiously as her could. He hadn’t heard them, but he had seen her give away her ribbon as a token, and he felt a comfortable futility and loss. “You’re good friends with the priest.” He couldn’t help himself.

“He’s been very, very kind to me.” She said as she entered the cab.

“Don’t they take vows?” Erik pushed on.

“Yes, they have to.” She spoke to him, but her attention was on the flowers. She was so excited about them that she could keep neither her eyes nor her hands off them. He should have given her the rose he brought. He discarded, some part of him hoping that by discarding the flower he’d discard the feelings he had for her, but obviously the heart did not work that way. And she was so happy to receive this token of recognition – he wished he could have been the one to make her this happy.

“But it is because of his vows that I can accept so much help from him. Otherwise it’d be inappropriate.” She ran her fingers over the soft petals of a large white blossom.

Erik stared, surprised. Was she toying with him or was she truly secretly this naïve? He chose to let the topic go for another day. “You gave him my name. I do not like divulging my name so easily.”

“So you’d rather be suspicious and be introduced as ‘my friend whose name I cannot divulge’?”

She made a good point, and his silence proved it. Meg lifted the large bouquet onto her lap. “I’ve never had flowers before.” She said. Erik looked out the window, he should not have thrown that rose away – but what was a single rose to such an extravagant arrangement?

Niccolo stared into the crackling flame of his fireplace as if searching for some answer. He rubbed the smooth silk of her ribbon between his fingers. Outwardly, he looked as calm and pleasant as always, but inside he fought bitterly with himself. This was neither right, nor fair. His only crime had been to be kind – wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Be kind and welcoming. Help those you can. He had done exactly as was expected of him, so why was _he_ being punished for it?

His pursuit of his priest robes had started off as a grand rebellion against his overbearing father and against everyone who thought he was some reckless merchants son, but in training he had come to appreciate what they stood for. He had every intention of keeping his priestly vows and carrying his duties out to the end. He had been good, great, exemplary. He had gotten rid of his weaknesses: his covetousness, his anger, his deep need for vengeance when slighted. He had erased them all through sheer work and sincerity. So why throw such temptation his way and why make her so powerful?

He had gone to the theatre to support a friend, but when, on stage, she had appeared at that windowsill, sitting so perfectly, so still, looking so much like an angel descended onto this undeserving earth, he had been transfixed just like the young man on stage. He could still see her, so fine and ethereal. He could see the way the lights lit her hair, casting them in a gold flame that burnt his skin and soul even now as he stood in his home. He could still see her eyes, warm, and rich, staring at him with promises he could not speak of. He wasn’t the weak one; she was the devil. She was put here to make men sin. She was made intentionally more powerful than his resistance. In times past, he could have called her a witch.

Niccolo clasped at his crucifix, he needed strength and otherworldly wisdom. She was winning, he could feel it. How was he supposed to resist somehow who looked so much like an angel, yet was mystery all the way down to her soul? He stood up and walked closer to the flame. He wrapped and unwrapped the ribbon around his hand. He could throw it into the flame, burn her out of his mind, and – if need be – transfer to another city. But no, that seemed wrong. He stepped away from the fire. This could be a test, or the presentation of a choice. The crackle of the fire seemed to grow into a roar as his head cleared of doubt and one simple truth lay bare for him to see. Things did not cross one’s path out of luck; there was no luck, just a grand, perfect design. He had been put into the priesthood to prove himself, and perhaps she was his reward for walking that path. “If I am not to have her,” he spoke into the fire, “then take her away from me. If the path of a priest is not for me, then let me have her.” 


	16. Chapter 16

“Meg! My wonderful doll!” Luca called her just as she was exiting the stage. He ran up to the steps. “I’m glad you’re still up there. Do you remember your audition? I’ve been raving about that piece. A few of our more indulging patrons got tired of my constantly talking about it and would like to see it. Could you do this for me?”

Meg looked up at the small group of men and women already seating themselves in the front row. There two women and five men, and among the men she spotted Niccolo’s familiar yellow hair and black cassock. He sat next to an older man with the same sharp features and shining black eyes. She did not need to guess that they were related. She couldn’t very well say no. “Of course, Luca. I will need a minute to change first.”

“No need,” he waved her off, “it’s informal, you can just perform as you are dressed now.”

She wore a dull yellow dress, pretty in its own right but not quite the dress for this performance. “Luca, the person who gifted me this piece is an artist, with all the quirks and the temperament to match his genius. I would be disrespecting his gift if I did not perform it as he envisioned.”

Luca pursed his lips, “You think so highly of this composer.”

“You would too if you knew him. You’re only heard one piece, and you’re obsessed with his music too.”

“I cannot argue with you on that point.” He winked at her before turning his attention to the seated audience. “Our beautiful Signora Giry will be back in a minute; she would like to prepare and perform this piece as the composer intended.”

Meg practically ran to her dressing room. She did not have the exact dress she had worn to audition, but she had something close – with a few creative alterations. She slipped on a white dress from another performance, pulled down and pinned the sleeves to bare her shoulder. She quickly wrapped her hair in a high bun and, with her slippers in hand, ran to the edge of the stage. She slipped on her slippers, tied up the ribbons, and breathed. She imaged herself on her first day in the theatre, she imagined the nymph whose daring adventure she was about to bring to life, and them she stepped on the stage, not Meg, but something ethereal and elusive.

When she finished the small group broke into thunderous applause and, despite her best efforts, she grinned like a schoolgirl. She was still not used to the praise and attention, and it went straight to her head, occasionally disabling proper thought. Luca walked to the edge of the stage and guided her down the stairs. He was a peacock strutting with his colourful prize. “I am thrilled that our Meg has lived up to my highest praises,” he placed his hand over Meg’s and addressed her, “and trust me, they have been many.”

“You were a vision to watch, truly.” One of the patron’s said as Luca delivered her into their midst. “But I must ask about that piece, it was so moving. Who wrote it?”

“A friend. He’s a very talented man, a genius if I am to be honest.”

“Who is this man? Is he in Milan? Is the ballet for this piece is complete?” The patron tripped over his own questions.

“I am not sure if it is complete, and I suspect it is from on Opera as he prefers singing. His voice could move the heavens.” Meg blushed. It was true that he had the most beautiful voice and, although she would never admit it out loud, she had spent many hours seated by her bedroom door secretly listening to him sing. “He is in Milan, but he is a very private man.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate privacy. We just want to speak to him and see what his pieces can offer our ballet and _opera_ house. And if he sings as well as you suggest, we might have a position for him.”

Meg laughed, “He would never take the stage. I can relay your message to him.”

“Does this ‘genius’ have a name?” Luca asked. He had tried to get this information from her many times, but she always side stepped it. Right now, she overwhelmed with the attention and he saw a chance and took it.

Meg almost gave his name, but quickly stopped herself. “He is an extremely private man, but I promise I will relay your message.”

“Do so. And let him know that we are willing to pay a generous sum for his work.”

That comment brought forth a memory from the Opera Populaire, she remembered listening – probably when she should not have been – as the new managers decried his outlandish salary request. She wondered it, should the opportunity present itself, these patrons would be willing to match his demands, and if Luca, with his insistence of working with this ‘talented composer’ would be willing to step aside for the nit-picking, micromanaging, perfectionist Erik. They’d regret their request in a day.

The group dispersed and Meg head back, for the second time, to her changing room. She was barely in her room for a minute when someone knocked. She opened the door, and Niccolo entered without an invitation, but with a disarming smile.

“If I am to guess, your genius is Monsieur Erik Mulheim, your guardian?” He said. He leaned against the closed door in a manner that might have been intimidating were he any other man. He was tall but whereas some, like Erik, had the breadth to fill a space, he was slender, a permissible sliver in her dressing room. “No, don’t confirm or deny it. It’s true. You seem to admire him greatly. You were very dedicated to keeping his artistic vision.”

“As a fellow artist, I respect his wish to preserve what he created. As a friend, I want to respect the piece he gave me.”

“That’s very good of you. You seem very close to him?”

Meg shrugged away the implications of the question. “He helped me leave Paris and has been more than good to me. How can I not respect and care for him?”

Niccolo moved away from the door and stood by the table where she sat and was taking off her ballet shoes. “I’ve come to care for you too, and I want to make sure you are safe.”

“I am always thankful that you look out for me. I assure you, I am infinitely safer for Erik’s presence.” She looked up from her shoes and at Niccolo, “I was curious, are you a patron of this theatre? I know you had a governess but didn’t realise you were in that echelon.”

“My father is the patron. He simply requests my presence alongside in him public from time to time. When he forgets, for long enough, that I am disappointing him daily by choosing priesthood over trade.” Niccolo said so lightly and cheerily, that she could not tell whether he was serious or not. He paused for a moment and then added, almost hesitantly, “May I, in turn, pry, a little?”

Meg flexed her tired feet. “perhaps.” She said carefully.

“Your family, in Paris. They did not travel down to see your debut. Do they know you are here?”

Meg folded her hands in her lap and studied her nails with unusual interest, “I do not think I am willing to let you pry that far, yet. Please understand,”

“I do.” He bent forward, lowering himself so he was eye-level with her, “I told you, and I meant it, I will never pressure you to divulge more than you are willing to.”

She closed her eyes and smiled in relief. He studied her fine, soft features. “Thank you Niccolo.” When she opened her eyes, he was already standing. “I must change now; I have an appointment and I am already running late.”

“Of course.” He said. He opened the door and stepped out, leaving her to change out of her costume and prepare for her appointment.


	17. Chapter 17

Meg walked as fast as she could without running. She practically threw herself down the stairs as she hurried to make her appointment. Erik turned out of the shadows to meet her, and she jerked to a stop, nearly falling over as she clasped her hand to her chest in surprise. “The day you choose to be straightforward instead of pointlessly scary, I will give up my ballet slippers.” She said, catching her breath.

“You’re late.” He pointed out with clear and open judgement.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I was unexpectedly held back, but you should be proud! Luca invited the patrons to see me reperform my audition. I know my dancing was good, but they were really taken by your music. I should be a bit jealous.” She said playfully, hoping her would dismiss having to wait for her for so long.

His lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk, “At least we know this manager, and it seemed the patrons as well, have good taste.” 

When it came to his abilities, his was not just confident, he was arrogant to the bone. However, the pure, uncompromising love for his art that this arrogance swaddled lent this glaring flaw a nearly princely charm, and she could not help but be moved by it. “Oh yes. I was even asked to relay a messaged to the mysterious and talented composer, whomever he may be. Apparently, if you have any complete pieces, for the ballet or the opera, they would be willing to hear it and offer a generous sum if it were up to standard.”

Erik scoffed. “The question is, is are their performers and is their manager up to my standards.”

“I’m still shocked you gave me one of your pieces to perform.”

“You are up to my standards.” To him, it was a simple fact, but the praised caused her to blush and turned to face the street quickly. She had not anticipated her own reaction and had nearly failed to hide her face in time.

“We should stop talking in the corner like conspirators. Plus, you promised we could go to the square before the sunset; if we waste any more time it will set on us.” She started to walked down the street, knowing he would follow her.

“And whose fault would that be?” He teased her.

She felt a flash of heat that had been increasingly common over the past two weeks. “I know winter is effectively over, but I didn’t expect the weather to change so quickly.” She changed the subject.

“We’re farther south, Meg. It is obvious that it will get warmer faster.”

“I know that, I was just making small talk.”

He tilted his head so he could see her a bit more clearly, “Aren’t we past small talk?” The square drew into sight ahead of them and he took a few more brisk steps so her was ahead of her and at angle to her, “you’re talking about something meaningless because there is something more important you are afraid to bring up.”

She walked around him and fixed her attention on a fruit stall. “Ah, clementines. I will miss them when their season is passed.”

“Meg.” He said. He did not give up once he had a thread of something he wanted; he was annoying in that way. He would follow it, relentlessly, until he found its end. She wanted to be annoyed by his damnable insistence on knowing everything, but it would be hypocrisy for her to fault him for a trait she knew, clearly, that she too possessed.

“I think it was selfish of me to join the theatre.” She said.

“Why?”

She looked up from the clementine she held, to him. He was facing her with his unscarred side, and she noticed, not for the first time, how handsome he was. She had always known that he possessed the foundations of the good looking man, but after spending so much time with him, the reality of his scars had faded and all she saw every morning was a man whose glances made her increasingly weak.

She focused her eyes back on her clementine and pretended to examine it for blemishes. Her stomach churned as if she would be sick. She was beyond disappointed in herself; she knew better than this. She had been burnt by a man before and had no desire to relive the embarrassment. Worse still, she had seen him when he had loved Christine; he was not a man who played coy or hid his feelings. If he felt even an inkling of attraction to her, he was too passionate about everything to live with her day in day out and hide any feelings. She was alone in this, and if he found out the stupid thoughts that invaded her mind, he would be disappointed, or – even worse – pity her.

“Why do you suddenly say it was selfish? Isn’t that what you came to Milan for?”

She picked up a brown paper bag and started filling it with clementines. “Yes, but people keep asking about my past in Paris, and about my family, and why no one from my family has come to see me perform. I’m afraid someone enterprising might decided to find answers on their own, and I don’t want you to be in harms way because I decided to be ambitious. I never thought I’d have this much attention so quickly, it never crossed my mind to change my name.”

“It is touching that you worry about, but do not waste time over it. I never laid down roots here, on purpose. I things prepared such that I could leave overnight if I had to. As for you, they would always believe that monster such as myself kidnapped you. It is not as delicate a situation as you imagine, and I would have been disappointed if you chose not to follow your ambitions.” 

“I do wish you would stop referring to yourself as a monster.” Meg handed the vendor money for the fruit. She reached into the bag and held out a larger clementine to him.

“That’s what people see me as.”

“Not me. You’re arrogant, annoying, can be a terribly wet-blanket, but it hurts me when you call yourself a monster.” Her head was so low on her chest that she appeared to be speaking more to her bag of fruit.

“Meg.” Erik said. His voice was low and serious. He grabbed her arm desperately and turned her westward. Meg’s mouth slipped open in shock. Erik turned away, so he stood behind her and with his back to the crowd, and he seemed to have done so just in time because immediately he hid his face from the crowd, the brown haired man caught sight of Meg Giry and her brown bag of late season clementines. 

“Go.” She said in a tone that would accept no arguments. She felt a swish of fabric behind her and she did not to look back to know that Erik had melted away, probably behind the fruit stalls, into a nearby alley, and then far away from the square.

“Meg Giry!” Raoul said in disbelief and excitement as he approached her. He was still every bit the dashing, charming man she remembered from months ago. “I can’t believe it is you. You’re here? In Milan?”

Meg hugged her fruit to her chest and tried to smile, but all she could offer was a tight-lipped shadow of a smile. “Monsieur De Chagny, I am so surprised to run into you like this.”

“Raoul. Please.” He said. “Is this where you have been all this while? Your mother, Christine, they’ve have been searching for you.”

“I’ve written frequently telling them that I am fine.”

“But they can’t write back. They’ve been dying to find you, why did you leave in this manner?”

“Please, Monsieur De Chagny. I know you may not understand but I beg of you do not tell anyone where I am. I will return in good time, but please.” She was shaking, near tears. She could see struggle occurring within the viscount. “Raoul, please.” She touched his arm and pleaded with him for him silence.

“But Christine…”

“I love her like my own sister, but she would tell my mother and I am not ready for that yet.”

The viscount ran his hand through his hair. He was still torn. “Are you okay? You look well.”

“I am, very much. I wrote to Christine telling her I’m doing quite well as a ballerina, and I hope very soon I will be able to invite her to see me perform. I had to set out on my own, and I’m not ready to go back yet.”

“She misses you dearly.” Raoul said. She could see in the slow relaxing of his shoulders that he was close to making a decision. “Your letters, when she receives them, are the highlight of her week. She was heartbroken that you missed the wedding.”

“And I will never forgive myself.” Meg said solemnly. “I’ve been terrible and selfish. I do not expect you to understand, but I know you are a good and noble man, and I hope you keep my secret for a little while longer.”

“Please, no tears.” He said. He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. She had not realized she was crying until he addressed her tears. She took the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes.

“Are you here all on your own?”

Meg shook her head. “I’ve meet good people who have helped me.”

“Meg?” An all to familiar voice interrupted her conversation with Raoul. Of course, she had to run into him in the square, the one place everyone in this section of the city enjoying ambling around in whenever they had even a minute of free time. Of course, this unwelcome reunion would be public.”

She shook her head at the priest. He seemed to always be around, both when she needed him and when she would rather have no one else around her. “Is everything alright?” He asked, his natural affability dimmed by concern.

“Yes. Yes.” She nodded. She wished she could disappear as Erik could; this was too much for her. “Monsieur De Chagny, this is Father Niccolo Parma. He has been very kind to me since I moved to Milan. Niccolo, this is Raoul De Chagny, he is from Paris.” All she had to say was that Raoul was form Paris, and Niccolo understood.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Raoul extended his hand and the priest shook it warmly. “I was very surprised to run into Meg here. She is like a sister to my wife, and we’ve missed her in Paris.”

“Ah, I’m sure you have. We have only been graced with a presence for a few months, but we in Milan have grown very fond of Meg and her talents.” Niccolo spoke with all the charm of the well-heeled gentry. It was as if she were seeing a second side to him, a side that was squaring off with Raoul in the secret language of the noblemen and gentry. “What brings you to Milan?”

“Viscount duties.” Raoul said.

“Ah, the duties of the nobility have become almost akin to work.”

Meg did not want them speaking. She did not want the ballet and opera theatre to come up. She did not want the Opera Populaire to become a topic; there would be talks about how is burned down, about the masked composer. It would all unravel unless she put a stop to it.

“Contrary to popular belief, the life of a nobleman is no longer all leisure.” Raoul said.

“What has the world come to?” Niccolo smiled, and Meg – out of the loop as she was – still detected the underhanded remark. 

“We keep up with the times.” Raoul shrugged.

“Raoul,” Meg spoke, seizing control of her conversation. “I can show you some wonderful parts of the city, if you have the time to spare right now.” What she was asking, was time to plead the case for his silence.

“Of course, Meg. I think we have much to discuss.”

Meg waved goodbye to the priest before leaving the square with Raoul, while silently praying that he would agree to keep her secret.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I have not forgotten this fic. I have been so busy trying to sort out the start of school and moving. I know exactly where this story is going, I just need to carve out time to actually write stuff down. Thank you all for reading, and for your kudos and comments; it really motivates me.

And so it ended. He had been happy in Milan, and it was not until he was fleeing the square, cowardly letting her face the viscount alone, that he realised he had been deeply happy in this city that was too bright and too alive to let him wallow in private darkness – not that he did not try. He heard the front door open, and he knew she was back. She said nothing to him. She merely hung up her coat and walked to his side. He continued to play, letting the soft loneliness of his music fill the air between them. She stood in respectful silence and let him play out his nerves until he was finished. When the music ended and he placed his hands on his lap, signifying that he had no more to play, only then did she speak, and her voice was soft and reassuring.

“Raoul and I spoke for a while.”

Erik kept his eyes ahead, fixed on the empty stand where sheet music would normally be held. “Whatever he said is inconsequential; I am already prepared to leave. Milan was never meant to be a final stop; it was only a detour. I already have arrangements to leave the city, my belongings are easy to pack. Obviously, I won’t leave you unprovided for.”

“We don’t have to go just yet.” She said. She was hopeful, but he was surprised. She considered them a ‘we’?

Meg sat beside him, and he shifted so they could both fit comfortably on the piano bench. “I explained to him why I needed to leave Milan, and why I was not ready for anyone to know where I am. It took some pleading, a few tears, some reassurance that I was fine, but he seemed to understand. He promised me that if he ever decided he had to tell Christine or my mother he had seen me in Milan, he would let me know before he did.”

“And you believe him?” Erik scoffed.

“I know you have your reasons for disliking him, but he is an honourable man. He gave his word, and yes, I believe he will keep it.” She said resolutely. She was looking at him, silently pleading for him to look at her and discuss the situation properly, but he could not make himself do it. He could not make himself look at her, not when he knew he would have to leave her very soon. He had learned, through a very hard lesson, to be lonely, and to let go of things no matter how beautiful they were, and the first lesson in being lonely was to never look back at what you left behind.

“I cannot risk my freedom, and possibly my life on the word of a single man.”

She was silent for a while. From outside, the loud laughter of passers-by and the brisk clop of horse hooves filtered into their home, muted but still alive. “I understand. Where are we headed to next?”

Her repeated phrasing of them as a unit broke his concentration and he made the singular error of looking at her. “We?”

She looked down and ran her fingers over the smooth piano keys. “Seeing Raoul appear in Milan just out of nowhere forced me to think and understand how tenuous things may be. If you left Milan for another city, you might have to – unexpectedly – leave again, and again, and again. And even if we tried to remain in contact, that line may be broken and we would never meet again.

He knew she had no reason to, but he felt as though she were lying to him and setting him up for some grand failure or humiliation. “It’s a necessary part of my being a fugitive.”

“It’s not necessary to part ways. I will worry about you, Erik. I know you want to tell me that I should not, but we both know that what you tell me to do has very little impact on what I do, if I already have a course of action in mind.”

“And your course of action is to worry about me?”

She shrugged her shoulders as if it were out of her hands.

“You came to Milan to find your career as a dancer, and now you have a brilliant future waiting for you with the theatre. I could never let you abandon that.”

“I have references and recommendations now, and…” she breathed and depressed a high C note, “That you may have to leave is a reality. I never truly considered it until I saw Raoul, but I have accepted that. The reality I do not want to accept, is living in Milan without your company. I was not lying when I said I have grown to enjoy your company.”

He had dreamed about love and belonging for so long, that he could not have missed the shy hints in her words, but he could not accept them as true. She was a bubbly personality who was kind to her friends and free with words of affection. He was being tempted to entrap himself by reading too much into her words, and he refused to be that man again. “I am touched that you have come to care for me, but what about the other people you have come to care for in Milan? You will abandon them?”

“Do you not want my company? You don’t have to think of wounding my pride; I can accept the truth.” She played another note, a high D.

Of course he wanted her company. He was speaking about abandoning the comfort he had come to enjoy in Milan, and yet that she sat beside him alone made the thought of fleeing bearable. He would miss her, terribly and painfully, but that was a pain for the future. “Meg, I enjoy having you beside me.”

“Then don’t leave me behind. I want to do this, and if you want me around it’s a non-issue.”

“I could not make you throw away your future.”

“Erik.” She laid her hand flat against the keys and looked up. She locked eyes with him, and in the openness of her gaze he saw that there was no more room for evasion, no more room for dancing around the truth. Her lips softened into a half smile. Never in his life had he lacked courage; he saw something, he wanted it, he pursued it. Yet, the last time he held out his heart, he had been left a fool standing alone in a glorified dungeon. He could not bear to repeat that experience.

She raised her hand from the piano to his face and rested her palm gently against the coolness of his mask. He stiffened when her fingers found the edge of his mask, but he did not stop her. “May I?” She asked. He nodded, whatever she wanted to prove, he would let her try. She pulled the mask away and laid it across the piano, all the while never taking her eyes off his face. She touched his scarring gently, her fingers tracing the twisted ridges carefully. He tilted his head into her palm, unable to fight the intimacy of the moment.

“Is it so bad, letting someone in?” She said. He could not fight her anymore, but he could warn her; he could give her an idea of where his true intentions lay so she could extricate herself from him.

He placed his own hand over hers and wove his fingers between hers. He waited for her to pull away in the realisation that she was foolish and did not truly want this. But she leaned closer to him, “It’s terrifying, but it’s not bad.” She said.

He felt her breath against his lips and his strength and resolution broke. He pressed his lips to hers and pulled her to him in a desperate confession of his true feelings. He expected her to recoil, and he had prepared himself for the rejection and the vindication that he right; she did not truly want to be with him the way he dreamt she would be. But, she proved him wrong. She leaned into him, her hand leaving his fingers and face to rest across his shoulders. He was shocked, but he did not deny himself or her. Consequences be damned. He would dare, and when he was punished for daring – as he knew he certainly would be – he would accept his punishment with welcoming arms because this moment, her desire for him and her willingness to be with him, was worth any retaliation the world would send his way. He pressed forward, parting her lips and she gave in with a sigh of sweet relief.

Niccolo contemplated the letter in his hand. He had made Meg a promise; he would not seek more than she was willing to divulge. But seeing the way her monsieur Mulheim had fled at the sight of the viscount de Changy and seeing her tension and nerves as she spoke to the viscount had left him more curious than loyal. It was not too invasive an inquiry, anyway. He was doing was asking about a Marguerite Giry and an Opera Populaire. He understood that people had secrets, and he had already told himself – even before he wrote the letter – that he would treat anything he found about her with same confidence and discretion he would a confession.

He slipped the letter into an envelope and rang the bell. A servant was at his door in less than a minute. He held out the sealed envelope, addressed to a detective in Paris his family usually employed to spy on rival merchants. “Deliver this at first light tomorrow.”

The servant nodded, took the envelope, and left Niccolo alone in his spacious study. He walked the room casually, thinking about Marguerite Giry. He stopped in front of the fireplace, opened a round bronze box that sat on the mantle, and pulled out a length of pale blue fabric. He ran the soft silk between his thumb and index finger before winding the ribbon around his palm and brining to his nose. He inhaled deeply, the smell of her hair had faded, but with enough concentration he could still catch the faint smell that lingered. “Meg,” he breathed against the ribbon, “what is it you think you need to hide so desperately?” 


	19. Chapter 19

They were like children stealing through the Ballet and Opera theatre in the dead of night. Erik tapped his foot on the wooden flooring of the stage. He stepped down and tapped a fist against the stage frame. He then walked up one of the many aisles and stomped his foot against the hard concrete flooring.

“What are you doing?” Meg asked with a half laugh. She raised her candle, so he could see her on the other side of the aisle.

“It’s built too well. The stage is wooden so you could make a trap door, though it would be a pity to butcher such fine, sturdy wood. But the real problem is this floor,” he stomped on the floor again, and meg laughed.

“Are you dreaming of rebuilding your catacombs? Here?”

“Pointless wanderings, really. Even if I could work through all this concrete and stone, the waters will surely drown me.”

“You miss it? Stalking the halls and playing magician?” She teased as crossed the aisle towards him.

“No nearly as much as one would imagine. There’s something about the dark and damp that makes it hard to miss.” He said dryly.

“Then why the sudden urge to come here in the middle of the night? You’ve turned me to a life of crime with this breaking and entering.” It was a joke, of course. She would have done any favour he asked.

He had wanted to leave Milan from the moment he spotted Raoul, but she had convinced it was not necessary. They had compromised. He had laid plans for them to be ready to leave in less than a day and agreed to wait until Raoul wrote that he would be divulging her location. It was a massive concession, a potential gamble of his freedom. He had done so for her, and she could not imagine what she could do for him in return.

Erik looked around the empty hall; it was so different without its audience. No longer filled with the noise and breath of hundreds, it felt larger, almost worth reverence in its own right. He did not miss the cold and the damp of his underground home and hidden passageways; what he missed was the quiet grandeur of a building whose walls had absorbed years and years of the finest art. It had been the first thing to embrace him, and now it awoke and inspired him. 

“I wanted to see a stage. I am working on a new piece, and I need to envision how it would be presented. Sometimes it helps me to walk the movements and blockings of the piece. I’ve never had something presented _exactly_ the way I want, but when I am writing I can close my eyes and envision the perfection.” He had lost himself in his explanation, and when he floated back into reality, she was staring at him, and he feared he had done a poor job of explaining himself. “It’s a bit more than that.” He added.

“It makes sense.” She said, “And when we are found and the police alerted, I am sure they would understand that boundaries are below quirks of a genius.” He knew she was teasing him; in fact, he took it as her default.

“I was not the one who stole the keys.” He pointed out.

“Monsieur!” She said with false horror, “First, you kidnap me from Paris. Now, you force me to steal keys and break into the ballet and opera house. This life of crime you are leading me down is quite concerning.”

There was a thought for an opera; an angel, bored of the monotony of her life, intentionally casts herself down from heaven to live among men and discover what all the fuss around sin is about. There would be a devil somewhere in the cast, lost and searching for redemption. It could be a comedy driven by the idea of serendipity and chain effects.

“I hope you need a second for blocking out your actors’ movements, because I do not plan on standing by idly and watching you. That’s not for me.” She slipped her hand into his and turned towards the stage. She was a person who craved intimacy and physical contact; she was consistently sitting beside him, holding his hand, touching his shoulders and massaging them when he stiffened at his piano. It made him feel wanted and cared for, but it also terrified him because she could leave, and unlike the cold that was easy to give up, the loss of the warmth of another person would leave him haunted. He wanted to follow her, but doubt glued his feet to the floor. Meg turned around, surprised, “Is everything all right, Erik?”

“Why me? Why _this_? You could have a normal life, a better life. You could easily find a normal man without these scars and these sins.”

She sighed and he could see sadness cloud her eyes. She placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed gentle soothing circles into his collarbone. “A normal man? Who when he decides it is best to leave Milan, would not listen to my views and I’d require the support of others for him to just listen to what I believe is right? A normal man who’d think it was fine for me to be a ballerina, but once I was his would glue himself to my side because he would not trust me to be able to speak to other men without his presence? A normal man who would take my teasing as slights. I’m addicted to my freedom, and his unsupervised time in Milan has left me too wild to want a ‘normal’ man.”

It did not make sense for her to love him, but he believed and understood her, for now. Still, he knew himself and he knew that soon he would need, again, her reassurance. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and rose to her toes to kiss him. He held her close against him and returned her kiss with a searing passion. It did not make sense, but he was glad for it and he could not imagine ever letting her go.

They stayed in the theatre till almost sunrise, and then snuck out and made their way back home. She felt a bit foolish; she had told herself to be careful with her feelings, that it was impossible for the man who had burnt down an entire opera house in a declaration of his love, would be quiet and coy about any feelings he harboured for her. Yet, from the moment he had kissed her she had fallen over like a paper figurine blown by the wind.

The moment they returned home, she threw herself onto a couch and curled up, prepared to nap.

“You are not going to your room?” Erik asked.

“I have to meet Niccolo in the morning. He said he needed to speak to me.” She yawned into the back of her hand. It was silly of her to stay up so late playing at being an opera performer with Erik, but he had wanted to go out, and he rarely ever wanted to go anywhere. She could not have refused him.

She felt his hands lifted her head and then place her head back down on his lap. She curled more into him and he ran his fingers against her head. She moaned in content as he gently massaged her scalp. “What about?” He asked.

“Who knows? I think he hopes he’ll be a good influence on me, and one day I’ll show interest in attending mass.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against him as she enjoyed the soothing movement through her hair.

When she awoke, he was asleep. She stretched, looked at the clock and jumped to her feet. She was already five minutes late. She changed out of her clothing and shook Erik awake, “I’m leaving.” He groaned in his sleep and turned away from her. She placed a kiss on cheek, throw on a light jacket and hurried out the door.

When Meg arrived at the church, Niccolo was seated in the front pew, with a newspaper. She hurried to the front of the church and sat beside him, “I’m very sorry. I’m late.”

He closed the paper and folded it on his lap “Not a problem; I somehow knew you would be.”

“It was a later night than usual.”

“What kept you up?”

“Erik was working on his music, and I love to hear him sing and play. I wish he would perform in public one day; it’s truly a thing to see. It is beyond genius.” She couldn’t help the blush that rose to her cheeks or the giddiness that made her fidget, and Niccolo noticed this.

“Monsieur Mulheim.” Niccolo nodded thoughtfully, “The greatest composer the world has never heard of.”

“His works are quite well known in Paris, he just refuses to sign his name to them.” Meg explained.

“How is your family accepting of the fact that you’ve been away with this man for so long? He is a friend of your family’s but still.” Niccolo turned to her, his eyes endlessly black and endlessly knowing.

“As you can see, I am always late to everything. It seems I am just late in returning home.” She joked, hoping to shift the tone and direction of the conversation. It did not work.

“You’ve done remarkably well in the ballet, but none of them have come to see you perform.” Niccolo said. Her inability to meet his eyes were confession enough. “You ran away with Monsieur Mulheim.” A statement, not a question.

“I had my reasons.” How could she lie to a priest? In a church, no less. “My mother was my ballet mistress and I wanted to set out on my own.”

“He seems much older than you.”

Meg laughed. So _that_ was his train of through. “He did not steal me away; I insisted on following when I discovered he was leaving Paris. He did not even know I was on the train until we had almost reached Milan.”

“You don’t have to be forcefully dragged away for you to have been taken without your true consent. Older men are experienced and can be crafty.”

“I am certain he did not ‘craft’ to take me from Paris. He did not even want me to leave the city, and he tried to convince me to return.”

“Mind games.” Niccolo said. “They turn your kindness and concern around; they can use fear and pity to make you do as they wish.”

“I may be young, Niccolo, but I believe I would know if – ”

“Would you?” He cut in. The light smile was gone from her face, and he knew that he pushed her towards the defensive. “Forgive me if I am overstepping, but I have grown very fond of you and as a priest I have seen it many times: a young woman goes off with an older, more experienced man and it never ends well for her. I just want to know that all is well with you.”

“All is well with me.” She said. He could feel the distance between them.

“I am sorry if you find my concern intrusive, but it is part of my duty. I also hope you know that if you ever need someone, I will always be by your side.”

She was quiet for a while, and he sat in respectful silence alongside her. Eventually she spoke, and this time she did not sound as distant as before. “Please believe me when I say that I am here of my own choice, and everyday I stand by that choice. Erik is a good man, and he had never attempted to convince me into anything I was not comfortable with.”

Niccolo nodded, “As long as you are safe and happy.” He said. He saw her eyes when she spoke of her older companion. She was a girl lost, and she did not even know it. She called Erik Mulheim a genius, and perhaps he was; he had turned this poor girl inside out, but he had done it so finely that no one noticed. That man could have carried her away at any point, but he hadn’t. She had been left in Niccolo’s world, and in his path, for a reason, and if accepting that reason meant confronting a man that preyed on the weak, he would gladly do so. If it also meant trading his cassock for a ballerina with the sun in her hair and spring her smile, he would gladly do so too. 


End file.
